LIBRAR 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 


Mrs.  SARAH  P.  WALSWORTH. 

Received  October,  1894. 
^Accessions  No. ^7^$^  .      Class  No. 


WRITINGS  OF  THE  "COUNTRY  PARSON." 


V 

Recreations   of  a  Country  Parson.     2  vols.    I6mo. 
Comprising  First  and  Second  Series,  and  sold  together  or 
.    separately. 

Leisure  Hours  in  Town,    i  vol.    I6mo. 

Graver  Thoughts  of  a  Country   Parson,     i   vol. 

16mo. 

The  E very-Day  Philosopher  in  Town  and  Coun 
try.    1  vol.     16mo. 

Counsel  and  Comfort  spoken  from  a  City  Pulpit. 

1  vol.     16mo. 

Autumn   Holidays,    i  vol.    I6mo. 


D3^  The  above  writings  of  the  "  Country  Parson  "  are  hand 
somely  bound  in  muslin,  bevelled  boards  and  gilt  tops,  and  are 
uniform  in  size  and  style. 

TICKNOR   AND    FIELDS,  Publishers. 


THE 


AUTUMN    HOLIDAYS 


OF   A 


COUNTRY   PARSON. 


BOSTON: 

TICKNOR    AND    FIELDS 

1865. 


AUTHOR'S  EDITION. 


UNIVERSITY    PRESS: 

WELCH,   BIGELOW,    AND    COMPANY, 

CAMBRIDGE. 


67*7 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER   I. 

PAGE 
BY  THE  SEASIDE 1 

CHAPTER    II. 
CONCERNING  UNPKUNED  TREES 19 

CHAPTER    III. 

CONCERNING  UGLY  DUCKS  :  BEING  SOME  THOUGHTS  ON  MIS 
PLACED  MEN 36 

CHAPTER    IV. 
OF  THE  SUDDEN  SWEETENING  OF  CERTAIN  GRAPES     .        .      56 

CHAPTER    V. 
CONCERNING  THE  ESTIMATE  OF  HUMAN  BEINGS    ...      76 

CHAPTER    VI. 
REMEMBRANCE 98 

CHAPTER    VII. 

ON  THE   FOREST  HILL  :   WITH   SOME  THOUGHTS  TOUCHING 
DREAM-LIFE 109 

CHAPTER    VIII. 

A  REMINISCENCE  OF  THE  OLD  TIME  :  BEING  SOME  THOUGHTS 

ON  GOING  AWAY 127 


iv  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER   IX. 
CONCERNING  OLD  ENEMIES 155 

CHAPTER    X. 

AT  THE  CASTLE:  WITH  SOME  THOUGHTS  ON  MICHAEL  SCOTT'S 

FAMILIAR  SPIRIT 175 

CHAPTER   XI. 

CONCERNING  THE  RIGHT  TACK  :  WITH  SOME  THOUGHTS  ON 
THE  WRONG  TACK      . 195 

CHAPTER    XII. 
CONCERNING  NEEDLESS  FEARS 220 

CHAPTER    XIII. 
BEATEN 238 

CHAPTER    XIV. 
GOSSIP 244 

CHAPTER    XV. 
ARCHBISHOP  WHATELY  ON  BACON 252 

CHAPTER    XVI. 
SOME  FURTHER  TALK  ABOUT  SCOTCH  AFFAIRS     .        .        .    291 

CHAPTER    XVII. 
FROM  SATURDAY  TO  MONDAY  .  .       .    327 


CONCLUSION 849 


CHAPTER    I. 


BY    THE    SEASIDE. 


E  have  been  here  a  little  more  than  a  week, 
all  of  us  together.  For  if  you  be  a  man  of 
more  than  five-and-thirty  years,  and  if  you 
have  a  wife  and  children,  you  have  doubtless 
found  out  that  the  true  way  to  enjoy  your  autumn  holi 
days,  and  to  be  the  better  for  them,  is  not  to  go  away  by 
yourself  to  distant  regions  where  you  may  climb  snowy 
Alps  and  traverse  glaciers,  in  the  selfish  enjoyment  of 
new  scenes  and  faces.  These  things  must  be  left  to 
younger  men,  who  have  not  yet  formed  their  home-ties, 
and  who  know  neither  the  happiness  nor  the  anxieties 
of  human  beings,  who  spread  a  large  surface  on  any 
part  of  which  fortune  may  hit  hard  and  deep.  Let  us 
find  a  quiet  place  where  parents  and  children  may  en 
joy  the  time  of  rest  in  company  ;  where  you  will  be 
free  from  the  apprehensions  of  evil  which  (unless  you 
be  a  very  selfish  person)  you  will  not  escape  when  the 
little  things  are  a  thousand  miles  away.  And,  to  this 
end,  one  may  well  do  without  the  sight  of  lakes,  water 
falls,  streets,  and  churches,  which  it  was  pleasant  once 
on  a  time  to  see.  Upon  this  day,  last  year,  I  ascended 

1  A 


BY   THE    SEASIDE. 

the  marvellous  spire  of  Strasburg  Cathedral.  It  was 
the  brightest  of  all  bright  days.  You  went  up  and  up, 
by  little  stairs  winding  through  a  lace-work  of  stone, 
which  it  makes  one  somewhat  nervous  to  think  of  even 
now,  till  you  emerged  on  a  platform  whence  you  looked 
down  dizzily  on  the  market-place  hundreds  of  feet  be 
low  ;  upon  the  town,  all  whose  buildings  looked  so 
clean  and  well-defined  in  the  smokeless  air ;  upon  the 
fertile  level  plain,  stretching  away  towards  Baden  ;  and 
the  ugly  poplars,  marking  the  course  of  the  Rhine.  It 
was  all,  to  an  untravelled  man  and  an  enthusiastic  lover 
of  Gothic  architecture,  interesting  beyond  expression: 
yet  I  would  much  rather  be  here. 

For  this  is  Saturday  morning,  and  my  parish  is  far 
away.  There  is  no  sermon  to  be  thought  of  for  to 
morrow  ;  and  no  multitude  of  sick  folk  to  see ;  no  pres 
sure  of  manifold  parochial  cares.  This  is  a  very  ugly 
cottage  by  a  beautiful  shore  ;  and,  through  a  simple  pe 
cuniary  negotiation,  the  cottage  is  ours  for  the  months 
of  August  and  September.  Looking  up  from  this  table, 
and  looking  out  of  the  window,  the  first  object  you 
would  see  is  a  shaggy  little  fuchsia,  covered  with  red 
flowers,  waving  about  in  a  warm  western  wind.  Be 
yond,  there  is  a  small  expanse  of  green  grass,  in  which 
I  see,  with  entire  composure,  a  good  many  weeds  which 
would  disquiet  me  much  if  the  grass  were  my  own. 
The  little  lawn  is  bounded  by  a  wall  of  rough  stone, 
half  concealed  by  shrubs.  And  on  the  farther  side,  the 
top  of  the  wall  cutting  sharp  against  it,  weltering  and 
toiling  now  in  shadow,  but  a  minute  ago  bright  in  sun 
shine,  with  the  unnumbered  dimple  of  little  waves, 
spreads  the  sea.  Now  it  has  brightened  again ;  and 


BY    THE    SEASIDE.  3 

three  gleaming  sails  break  the  deep  blue.  Opposite,  a 
few  miles  off,  there  are  grand  Highland  hills.  Some 
times  they  look  purple ;  sometimes,  light  blue ;  some 
times  the  sunshine  shows  a  yellow  patch  of  cornfield. 
Never,  for  more  than  an  hour  or  two,  do  those  hills  and 
this  sea  look  the  same.  They  are  always  changing ; 
and  the  changes  are  extreme.  You  could  no  more  tell 
a  stranger  what  this  place  is  like,  by  describing  it  ever 
so  accurately  as  it  is  at  this  moment,  than  you  could 
worthily  represent  the  most  changeful  human  face  by  a 
single  photograph.  In  the  sunset  you  may  often  see 
what  will  make  you  understand  the  imagery  of  the  Rev 
elation,  —  a  sea  of  glass  mingled  with  fire ;  then  the 
mountains  are  of  a  deep  purple  hue,  such  as  you  would 
think  exaggerated  if  you  saw  it  in  a  picture.  Hardly 
have  the  crimson  and  golden  lights  faded  from  the 
smooth  water,  when  a  great  moon,  nearly  full,  rises 
above  the  trees  on  this  side,  and  casts  a  long  golden 
path,  flickering  and  heaving ;  the  stillness  is  such  that 
you  fear  to  break  it  by  a  footfall.  Then  there  have 
been  times,  even  within  this  week,  when  drenching 
showers  darkened  the  water  and  hid  the  opposite  hills ; 
or  when  white-crested  waves  made  the  sea  into  a  wild, 
ridgy  plain,  and  broke  on  the  shingle  hard  by  in  foam 
and  thunder.  • 

This  is  not  a  fashionable  watering-place ;  you  go  back 
to  a  quiet  and  simple  life,  coming  here.  No  band  of 
music  plays  upon  the  black  wooden  pier,  where  the  rare 
steamboat  calls  daily.  There  is  no  such  thing  as  a  gay 
promenade,  frequented  by  brightly  dressed  people  de 
sirous  to  see  and  to  be  seen.  There  is  no  reading- 
room,  no  billiard-room,  no  circulating  library,  no  hotel, 


4  BY   THE   SEASIDE. 

no  people  who  let  out  boats,  no  drinking-fountain. 
There  is  a  post-office  ;  but  it  is  a  mile  distant.  You 
would  find  here  no  more  than  a  line  of  detached  houses, 
a  few  extremely  pretty,  and  more  of  them  extremely 
ugly,  reaching  for  somewhat  more  than  a  mile  along  the 
sea-shore.  The  houses,  each  with  its  shrubbery  and 
lawn,  greater  or  less,  stand  on  a  strip  of  level  ground 
between  the  sea  and  a  rocky  wall  of  cliff,  which  follows 
the  line  of  the  beach  at  no  great  distance  ;  doubtless  an 
ancient  sea  margin.  But  now  it  serves  as  a  beautiful 
background  to  the  pretty  houses,  and  it  almost  redeems 
the  ugly  ones ;  it  is  covered  richly  with  trees,  which 
through  ages  have  rooted  themselves  in  the  crevices  of 
the  rock  ;  and  where  the  perpendicular  wall  forbids  that 
vegetation,  it  is  clothed  with  ivy  so  luxuriant,  that  you 
would  hardly  think  those  hearty  leaves  ever  knew  the 
blighting  salt  spray.  By  the  sea-shore  there  runs  a 
highway;  the  waves  break  within  a  few  yards  on  a 
beach  of  rough  shingly  gravel.  It  is  to  be  confessed, 
that  this  charming  place  lacks  the  level  sand  which  the 
ebbing  tide  leaves  for  a  firm,  cool  walking  space  at  some 
time  of  every  day.  But  your  walks  are  not  confined  to 
the  path  to  right  and  left  along  the  sea-shore.  You  will 
discover  pleasant  ways,  that  lead  to  the  country  above 
the  wooded  and  iviefl  cliff;  and  there  you  will  find  ripen 
ing  harvest  fields,  and  paths  that  wind  through  fragrant 
woods  of  birch,  oak,  and  pine,  and  here  and  there  the 
mountain-ash,  with  its  glowing  scarlet  berries.  But  it 
is  not  what  one  understands  by  a  country  side :  the 
whole  landscape  is  gradually,  but  constantly,  sloping 
upwards,  till  it  passes  into  dark  heathery  hills,  solitary  as 
Tadmor  in  the  wilderness.  There  the  sportsman  goes 


BY   THE   SEASIDE.  5 

in  search  of  grouse  and  deer ;  and  thence  you  have 
views  of  the  level  blue  water  far  below  you,  that  are 
worth  going  many  miles  to  see. 

There  are  places  along  this  seaside  where  your  only 
walk  is  beside  the  sea.  The  hills  rise  almost  from  the 
water,  an  expanse  of  shadeless  heather.  But  we  are 
happier  with  our  shady  woodland  walks.  When  the 
glare  and  heat  are  oppressive  along  the  shore  in  the 
vacant  afternoon,  let  us  turn  away  from  the  road  that 
skirts  the  beach,  up  this  thickly  wooded  glen,  through 
which  a  stream  brawls  from  rock  to  rock,  hardly  seen 
for  the  leaves.  You  will  not  walk  for  a  few  yards  un 
der  the  pleasant  shadow,  till  you  find  yourself  so  envi 
roned  with  ivy-grown  trees,  honeysuckle  and  wild  flow 
ers,  that  you  might  fancy  the  sea  many  miles  off.  And 
the  oppressive  light  and  heat  and  dust  are  gone.  Let 
us  go  on,  following  the  windings  of  the  path  and  the 
water,  till  we  reach  a  spot  where  a  clear  little  brook, 
tumbling  over  rocks  from  far  above  us,  crosses  the  road 
under  a  rude  arch,  to  join  the  larger  stream ;  and  now 
let  us  sit  down  on  a  great  stone,  where  the  little  brook, 
close  by  our  feet,  makes  a  leap  into  the  dark  entrance 
of  the  bridge.  Here  let  us  rest  and  be  thankful.  Many 
people  find  this  a  feverish  world  :  let  us  rejoice  in  a 
nook  so  green  and  quiet.  Ferns  of  many  kinds  cover 
the  damp  rocks  :  there  is  a  thick  canopy  of  green  leaves 
overhead,  through  which  you  may  see  blinks  of  the 
brightest  blue  sky ;  and  through  which  you  may  see  an 
intense  flickering  of  light,  where  the  sun  is  struggling 
to  pierce  the  dense  shade.  The  air  is  fragrant  and  cool 
and  moist :  all  around  there  is  a  thicket  of  evergreens 
and  underwood,  over  which  the  tall  trunks  arise  whose 
spreading  branches  make  our  grateful  shadow. 


6  BY   THE    SEASIDE. 

We  have  all,  young  and  old,  wearied  for  this  time ; 
and  here  it  is  at  last.  The  cheerful  anticipation  of  it 
was  something  to  help  one  through  laborious  summer 
days.  For  if  you  are  to  be  in  the  country  no  more 
than  two  months  in  the  year,  the  months  beyond  ques 
tion  should  be  August  and  September.  Let  us  keep 
our  cake  as  long  as  we  can  ;  let  us  make  our  holiday 
season  late.  June  and  July  are  delightful  months  amid 
rural  scenes  ;  but  it  would  be  dismal  to  go  back  to  the 
hot  town  at  the  end  of  July,  and  think  one  had  settled 
down  for  the  winter.  But,  at  the  beginning  of  October, 
a  little  space  of  long  dark  evenings,  and  the  growing 
crispness  of  the  morning  air,  help  to  make  one  feel 
ready  to  take  with  good  heart  to  the  laboring  oar  again. 

Yet,  though  this  holiday  time  be  so  enjoyed  by  antici 
pation,  I  think  that  when  the  day  comes  on  which  you 
preach  to  your  own  congregation  for  the  last  time  be 
fore  leaving,  you  feel  it  rather  a  trial ;  and  you  turn 
your  back  upon  your  church  with  some  regret  and  some 
misgiving.  A  clergyman's  work  is  not  like  any  other  ; 
you  have  not  quite  the  school-boy's  feeling  when  work 
ing  days  are  over  and  holidays  begin.  For  your  work 
is  not  merely  your  duty,  it  is  your  happiness  too  ;  and 
though  some  folk  may  not  understand  it,  you  feel  it 
something  of  a  privation  to  think  on  a  Sunday  in  your 
play-time  that  the  bells  are  ringing,  and  the  people 
assembling  in  the  familiar  place,  and  you  not  there. 
Happily,  there  are  regions  in  this  world  where  the 
clergyman's  last  Sunday  at  church,  is  likewise  the  last 
Sunday  at  church  of  a  great  part  of  the  t  congregation. 
It  is  gathered,  as  usual,  one  day ;  and  the  next,  scat 
tered  far  and  wide,  by  the  seaside  and  among  the  hills. 


BY   THE   SEASIDE.  7 

And  in  this  uncertain  world,  where  when  many  hun 
dreds  of  human  beings  are  in  one  place  to-day,  no  one 
can  say  who  may  be  missing  when  they  meet  after  some 
weeks'  separation,  I  think  that  you,  my  friend,  will 
preach  with  special  kindness  and  heartiness  on  your 
last  Sunday  at  home ;  and  that  you  will  be  heard  with 
special  attention  and  sympathy.  There  will  be  a  very 
perfect  stillness  as  you  pronounce  the  blessing  for  what 
may  be  the  last  time.  And  you  will  well  remember  the 
words  and  the  music  of  the  parting  hymn.  Taking 
your  final  look  round  your  vestry,  and  round  your  emp 
tied  church,  as  you  come  away,  you  will  feel  the  sorrow 
and  anxiety  which  come  of  the  vain  delusion  common 
to  man,  that  the  place  where  you  worked  and  labored 
your  best  will  not  go  on  quite  as  well  in  your  absence. 
Ah,  my  friend,  some  day  you  and  I  must  leave  our  sev 
eral  churches  for  ever  ;  and  though  we  shall  be  kindly 
remembered  and  missed  there  for  a  while,  they  will  come 
by  and  by  to  do  without  us.  And  very  fit  and  right 
too.  We  are  not  such  self-conceited  fools  as  to  wish 
it  were  otherwise.  Yet  it  is  cheering,  each  Tuesday 
morning  through  the  holidays,  when  the  letter  comes  by 
post,  in  which  a  kind  friend,  whom  duty  ties  to  his 
town  work  at  this  season,  tells  how  all  went  well  in  the 
services  of  the  Sunday  before. 

Then,  following  that  parting  day,  comes  one  of  con 
fusion  and  worry  and  fatigue,  —  the  day  on  which  the 
family  accomplishes  the  journey  to  the  distant  resting- 
place.  Would  that  the  age  might  come  when  human 
beings  shall  be  able  to  do  without  baggage  !  Yet  even 
baggage  serves  good  moral  ends.  You  are  very  thank 
ful  indeed,  when,  in  the  quiet  evening,  the  cottage,  or 


8  BY    THE    SEASIDE. 

the  more  ambitious  dwelling,  is  reached  at  last ;  and 
the  manifold  packing-cases,  being  counted  up,  are  found 
to  be  all  right.  During  the  day,  several  times,  you  had 
quite  resigned  yourself  to  the  conviction  that  half  of 
them  would  never  be  found  more. 

There  are  simple  statements  which  may  be  repeated 
many  times,  while  yet  no  wise  man  will  pull  you  up  by 
declaring  that  he  has  heard  the  like  before  ;  for  such 
simple  statements  are  the  irrepressible  outflow  of  the 
present  happy  mood  and  feeling.  You  could  not  help 
uttering  such,  to  any  one  to  whom  you  might  be  talking 
out  your  heart.  Suffer  me  now  to  declare,  that  there  is 
no  more  precious  blessing  than  rest.  "  The  end  of 
work  is  to  enjoy  rest."  "  The  end  and  the  reward  of 
toil  is  rest."  Yes,  it  is  delightful  to  rest  for  a  while 
from  even  the  most  congenial  and  beloved  work.  And 
rest  is  not  merely  delightful ;  it  is  needful.  The  time 
comes  when  the  task  drags  heavily;  when  it  is  got 
through  heartlessly,  and  by  a  painful  effort  often  re 
newed.  Most  busy  men,  busied  with  work  that  wears 
the  brain  and  nervous  system,  have  some  little  time  of 
rest  in  their  daily  round,  —  some  precious  hour  of  quiet. 
There  is  generally  the  short  breathing  space  between 
dinner  and  tea.  But,  as  months  pass,  the  nerves  grow 
so  irritable  that  many  sounds  and  circumstances  worry 
you  ;  then  is  the  hour  when  the  organ-grinder  painfully 
thrills  you  through.  At  this  stage,  busy  men  find  the 
relief  of  a  little  pause,  —  a  day  or  two  away  from  work, 
no  matter  where.  Arnold  said,  that  the  most  restful  days 
of  the  year  were  those  spent  in  the  long  journeys  by 
coach  between  Rugby  and  Fox  How.  A  very  eminent 


BY   THE   SEASIDE.  y 

and  over-driven  man  lately  told  me,  that  when  he  is  be 
ing  wrought  into  a  fever,  he  finds  rest  by  going  to  Lon 
don  by  the  express  train,  and  returning  the  next  day. 
The  distance  is  four  hundred  miles  going,  and  the  like 
returning,  —  eleven  hours  either  way.  But  it  is  enjoy 
able  to  lean  back  in  the  carriage  ;  to  read  and  to  muse, 
—  sure  that  no  one  will  speak  to  him  on  the  business 
of  his  profession.  I  have  heard  of  a  great  man  who 
found  the  like  relief  in  going  to  bed  for  two  days  or  so. 
There  was  physical  repose  ;  and  even  the  unreasonable 
caller  and  tormentor,  who  would  utterly  disregard  the 
assurance  that  the  Doctor  was  weary  and  could  see  no 
one,  was  beaten  by  the  assurance  that  the  Doctor  was  in 
bed.  For  the  average  human  being,  on  being  told  that 
the  Doctor  could  see  no  one,  would  instantly  say,  "  O, 
but  I  know  he  will  see  ME  ! "  But  not  even  these  re 
treats  will  stay  the  gathering  weariness  which  grows  on 
body  and  mind  as  the  seasons  pass.  And  if  you  have 
been  at  work  from  the  beginning  of  October  to  the  end 
of  July,  —  ten  months  with  little  relaxation,  —  then  you 
have  fairly  earned  the  autumn  holiday-time.  And  your 
rest  will  be  not  merely  the  reward  of  past  work,  but  the 
preparation  for  future.  You  are  laying  up  the  strength, 
spirit,  and  patience  needful  for  the  winter  months,  if 
you  are  to  see  that  time.  And  you  must  act  on  the  cal 
culation  that  you  are  to  see  it.  On  dark  Sunday  after 
noons  in  January,  when  gas  is  lit  throughout  the  church, 
and  snow  lies  in  the  wintry  streets,  you  may  preach 
your  sermon  with  the  greater  heart  and  vigor  for  the 
hours  you  sit  now  on  a  stone  by  the  seaside,  looking  at 
the  waves,  and  for  the  bracing  bfeezes  that  supply  the 
ozone  the  city  lacks.  So  the  diligent  clergyman  is  as 
1* 


10  BY   THE   SEASIDE. 

much  in  the  way  of  duty  while  enjoying  his  autumn 
rest  as  while  fulfilling  the  work  of  the  remainder  of  the 
year. 

That  you  may  thoroughly  enjoy  the  autumn  holidays, 
it  is  essential  that  you  should  feel  that  they  have  been 
fairly  earned  by  long  and  hard  work.  You  cannot  feel 
the  delight  of  rest,  unless  by  contrast  with  toil,  hurry, 
and  weariness.  All  this  quiet  and  beauty,  to  you  and 
me  grateful  as  water  to  the  thirsty,  would  be  to  people 
who  habitually  live  an  idle  life  no  better  than  some 
thing  insufferably  dull  and  stupid.  Let  us  hope  that 
we  have  faithfully  gone  through  the  previous  discipline, 
that  will  make  us  relish  simple  quiet  and  peace.  Some 
people  think  it  shows  humility  to  say  things  against 
themselves  which  they  know  are  not  true.  They  meek 
ly  confess  sins  of  which  they  are  aware  they  are  not 
guilty  ;  saying  what  they  suppose  must  be  true,  instead 
of  what  they  feel  to  be  true.  Let  us  never  do  the  like. 
Few  things  are  more  fatal  to  a  true  and  honest  spirit. 
For  myself,  I  will  say,  without  reserve,  that  in  these 
last  ten  months  I  have  worked  to  the  very  best  of  my 
ability  and  strength  to  fulfil  my  duty.  And,  if  not  very 
much  after  all,  I  have  done  what  I  could.  I  can  say 
the  like  for  certain  dear  friends  in  my  own  profession. 
They  never  wilfully  neglect  any  work ;  they  never  see 
any  thing  that  ought  to  be  done,  without  trying  to  do  it. 
Unprofitable  servants,  doubtless,  in  the  sight  of  One 
above  us  ;  but,  at  least,  we  can  look  our  fellow-men  in 
the  face. 

I  suppose,  my  readers,  we  have  all  a  picture  in  our 
minds  of  the  ideal  au&mn  holidays.  They  never  have 
come;  thev  are  never  to  be.  Yet  we  can  think  of 


BY   THE   SEASIDE.  11 

broad  harvest  fields,  golden  in  sunshine  ;  of  magnificent 
trees,  the  growth  of  centuries  ;  of  green  glades,  with  the 
startled  deer ;  of  the  gray  Gothic  dwelling,  large  and 
hospitable  ;  of  a  mode  of  life  in  which  sickness,  anxiety, 
vague  fears,  and  pinching  efforts  to  save  shillings,  are 
quite  unknown.  Yes,  it  is  to  be  admitted  that  this  ugly 
little  cottage  and  its  surroundings,  physical  and  moral, 
are  no  more  than  a  makeshift.  But  then,  my  friend, 
what  more  is  all  our  life,  and  all  our  lot  ?  We  must 
make  them  do  ;  we  have  great  reason  to  be  thankful  for 
things  as  they  are  :  but  all  this  is  not  what  we  used  to 
think  of,  when  we  were  little  children  or  hopeful  youths. 
Let  us  train  ourselves  to  look  at  lights  rather  than 
darks.  There  is  such  a  thing  as  an  eye  for  lights,  and 
such  a  thing  as  an  eye  for  darks.  You  know,  when  you 
look  at  a  grand  Gothic  window,  —  the  eastern  window 
of  a  noble  church  ;  and  when  you  look  at  a  much  smaller 
Gothic  window,  you  may  look  either  at  the  dark  tracery 
of  stone,  or  at  tne  lights  of  gorgeous  storied  glass.  Now, 
in  a  physical  sense,  it  is  well  to  look  at  each  in  turn. 
You  may  behold  a  really  excellent  window  by  this,  — 
that  the  darks  are  beautiful  in  form,  if  you  fix  your  at 
tention  on  them  only ;  and  the  lights  are  likewise  beau 
tiful  in  form,  if  you"  consider  them  by  themselves.  An 
inferior  architect  will  give  you  the  tracery  beautiful,  but 
the  lights  shapeless  ;  or  the  lights  pretty,  but  the  tracery 
ugly.  But,  though  it  is  well  physically  to  have  an  eye 
for  both  darks  and  lights,  it  is  best,  usually,  to  look 
mainly  at  lights,  as  you  contemplate  the  grand  Gothic 
window  of  your  lot  and  of  circumstances.  For  many 
people  look  at  the  darks  to  the  exclusion  of  the  lights. 
They  dwell  on  the  worries  of  their  condition,  to  the  for- 


12  BY  THE   SEASIDE. 

getfulness  of  its  blessings  and  advantages.  They  con 
template  the  smoky  chimney  of  their  dining-room,  to  the 
forgetfulness  of  a  hundred  good  things.  They  try  to  get 
other  people  to  do  the  like.  My  friend  Smith  told  me, 
that,  once  on  a  time,  he  had  Mr.  Jones  to  preach  in  his 
church.  Smith's  church  holds  fifteen  hundred  people, 
and  it  is  perfectly  filled  by  its  congregation ;  of  this  cir 
cumstance  Smith  is  pardonably  proud.  When  Mr. 
Jones  preached,  the  church  was  quite  crowded,  save 
that  three  seats  (not  pews,  seats  for  a  single  person 
each)  were  vacant  in  a  front  gallery.  But  so  keen  was 
Mr.  Jones's  eye  for  darks,  to  the  oblivion  of  lights,  that 
after  service  he  merely  said  to  Smith,  that  he  had  re 
marked  three  seats  empty  in  the  gallery.  Not  one 
thought  or  word  had  he  for  the  fourteen  hundred  and 
ninety-seven  seats  that  were  filled.  Smith  was  a  little 
mortified.  But  by  and  by  he  remembered,  that  the  pe 
culiar  disposition  of  Mr.  Jones  was  one  that  would  in 
flict  condign  punishment  upon  itself.  Then  he  was 
sorry,  rather  than  angry.  Yes,  my  friend,  let  us  be 
glad,  if  we  have  an  eye  for  the  lights  of  life,  rather  than 
for  its  darks  ! 

It  is  curious,  how  very  soon  the  burden  drops  from 
one's  back,  when  you  come  for  your  holidays  to  some 
place  far  away  from  your  home  and  your  duty.  The 
relief  is  in  direct  proportion  to  the  distance  in  miles. 
A  hundred  miles  will  suffice  ;  a  thousand  are  better. 
Very  lightly  does  the  care  of  your  parish  rest  on  you, 
when  the  parish  is  a  thousand  miles  distant !  Even  a 
tenth  part  of  that  amount  makes  one  feel  as  a  horse 
must,  when  its  harness  is  removed,  and  its  shoes  taken 
off,  and  it  is  turned  out  to  grass.  As  you  put  on  a 


BY   THE   SEASIDE.  13 

tweed  suit,  and  adopt  a  wide-awake  hat,  you  forget  the 
responsibilities  and  labors  of  past  months  ;  you  cease  to 
be  the  same  man.  The  careful  lines  are  smoothed  out 
of  your  face ;  the  hair  pauses  in  growing  gray.  It  is 
necessary,  indeed,  to  the  true  sense  of  rest,  that  you 
should  have  the  feeling  of  a  good  long  horizon  of  time 
before  you.  A  few  days  in  the  country,  with  the  feel 
ing  that  you  are  just  going  back  to  work,  will  not  do  ; 
the  feverish  pulse  will  keep  by  you.  It  is  quite  a  differ 
ent  thing,  when  you  know  you  have  several  weeks  in 
prospect.  Then  you  expatiate  ;  then  you  truly  rest. 
Those  good  men  who  remain  within  a  few  miles  of  their 
parish,  and  who  go  back  for  each  Sunday's  duty,  do  not 
enjoy  the  feeling  of  the  holiday-time  at  all.  And  feel 
ing  is  the  reality.  It  is  not  what  a  thing  is  in  itself,  but 
how  it  presents  itself  to  you.  You  know  how  different 
a  thing  a  railway-station,  thirty  miles  from  home,  looks 
to  you  when  you  are  to  stop  at  it,  and  when  you  are  to 
go  on  three  hundred  miles  further. 

It  is  pleasant,  and  at  first  a  little  perplexing,  instead 
of  setting  to  work  after  breakfast,  to  go  forth  and  wan 
der  about  the  shore,  or  sit  on  a  rock  as  long  as  you 
please,  with  the  sense  that  you  are  neglecting  nothing 
that  needs  to  be  clone.  You  feel,  as  regards  time,  as  a 
poor  man  who  has  suddenly  inherited  a  large  fortune 
must  feel  towards  money.  Strange,  to  have  so  much 
to  spare  of  the  tiling  of  which  before  one  had  so  little ! 
And  how  misty  and  unreal  the  scenes  and  the  life  that 
are  distant  and  past  grow  to  be!  I  cannot  at  this 
minute,  sitting  on  a  warm  stone  by  the  sea  in  the  morn 
ing  sunshine,  feel  that  at  the  entrance  to  a  certain 
square  stands  in  this  same  sunshine,  with  a  little  shrub- 


14  BY   THE   SEASIDE, 

bery  before  it,  a  certain  church,  Ionic  as  to  its  front 
elevation,  which  the  writer  well  knows.  It  is  always 
there  when  I  go  back;  but  I  do  not  know  what  be 
comes  of  it  in  the  mean  while. 

There  is  nothing  more  certain  than  this,  that  it  will 
not  answer  to  go  to  your  resting-place  to  spend  your 
holiday- time,  without  having  thought  of  what  you  are 
to  do  while  there.  If  the  truth  were  told,  it  would  be 
the  confession  of  many  men,  that  the  enjoyment  of  their 
holidays  was  all  in  the  anticipation  and  the  retrospect ; 
and  that  the  holidays  themselves  were  a  very  disap 
pointing  and  tiresome  time,  very  listless  and  weary. 
All  this  comes  of  their  vaguely  believing  that,  to  enjoy 
the  season  of  rest,  all  you  have  to  do  is  to  go  to  some 
quiet,  retired  place,  and  then  some  occupation  will  sug 
gest  itself,  some  mode  of  getting  the  due  enjoyment  out 
of  the  long-expected  time.  A  clergyman  might  just  as 
wisely  ascend  his  pulpit,  without  having  thought  of  what 
he  is  to  say  from  it  of  his  text  and  his  sermon,  and 
count  upon  these  turning  up  at  the  moment  they  are 
needed.  Before  going  to  the  seaside,  you  should  care 
fully  consider  what  you  are  to  do  there,  and  map  out 
some  little  plan  of  life ;  not  adhering  to  it,  of  course, 
should  some  pleasant  deviation  suggest  itself.  And 
every  one  must  devise  such  a  plan  for  himself,  accord 
ing  to  his  own  liking.  Only  let  it  be  remembered,  that 
it  will  not  do  to  be  absolutely  vacant.  Time  will  hang 
heavy ;  and  then  enjoyment  is  at  an  end.  Different 
men  have  devised  different  modes  of  light  occupation 
for  their  holiday-time ;  and  that  which  suited  one  man 
might  be  most  unsuitable  for  another.  Mr.  Jay,  the 
eminent  Non-conformist  of  Bath,  tells  us  that  it  helped 


BY    THE   SEASIDE.  15 

him  to  thoroughly  enjoy  his  vacation,  to  write  one 
little  sermon  in  the  morning  of  each  day,  and  another 
in  the  evening.  The  sermons  were  certainly  very 
brief;  you  might  read  each  in  five  minutes;  yet  not 
every  preacher  would  have  regarded  it  as  recreation  to 
produce  them.  There  are  very  many  to  whom  sermon- 
writing  does  not  come  so  easily ;  to  whom  a  sermon  is 
the  thought  of  a  week,  not  the  diversion  of  an  hour. 
Let  it  be  said,  that  Mr.  Jay's  little  sermons  now  fill  four 
volumes,  under  the  title  of  Morning  and  Evening  Exer 
cises  ;  they  provide  a  little  pious  reading  for  the  morn 
ings  and  evenings  of  a  year.  The  writer  is  so  very 
warm  a  Churchman,  that  he  seldom  looks  at  the  vol 
umes  without  regretting  that  the  good  man  was  not 
one;  the  more  so,  as  it  is  plain  that  no  conscientious 
scruple  kept  him  out  of  his  national  church.  Yet,  let 
it  be  said,  that  if  you  read  the  little  discourses  daily,  for 
a  year,  you  will  leave  off  with  a  very  kindly  and  pleas 
ant  impression  of  their  author.  It  is  not  that  any  one 
discourse  is  in  any  way  specially  brilliant,  but  that  all 
are  so  evenly  good ;  and  they  treat,  in  the  most  ad 
mirable  spirit,  not  the  matters  on  which  good  Christians 
differ,  but  those  on  which  they  all  agree. 

For  men  to  whom  the  writing  of  sermons  is  not  re 
laxation,  but  rather  work,  yet  whose  likings  are  quiet 
and  scholarly,  certain  rules  may  be  suggested.  In  ad 
dition  to  the  physical  employment  of  mountain  excur 
sions,  yachting,  riding,  shooting,  and  the  like,  let  abun 
dance  of  reading  be  provided.  Let  the  Times  daily  tell 
how  the  great  world  goes  ;  let  plenty  of  other  news 
papers  come  besides.  Thus  post-time  will  be  a  fresh 
sensation,  even  if  very  few  letters  appear,  and  these  of 


16  BY    THE   SEASIDE. 

very  small  interest.  And,  besides  as  many  pleasant 
new  books  as  you  can  get,  let  there  be  some  large  work, 
of  many  volumes,  read  perhaps  long  ago,  yet  worth 
reading  again,  and  which  could  not  be  read  satisfactorily 
amid  the  pressure  of  working  days  and  months.  And 
weeks  before  you  come  to  the  seaside,  consider  what 
this  book  shall  be.  Mine,  this  year,  is  Lockhart's  Life 
of  Sir  Walter  Scott,  —  an  admirable  history  of  a  great 
and  good  man.  If  you  have  read  it  as  a  boy,  read  it 
once  more  as  a  man ;  and  you  will  find  how  well  you 
remember  it.  It  is  a  sad  history,  certainly  ;  and  you 
will  find  many  things  to  be  thought  of  with  deep  regret : 
yet  you  will  rise  from  it  with  a  hearty  admiration  and 
affection  for  the  greatest  Scotchman.  And  often,  as 
you  go  on,  you  will  come  on  passages  that  will  make 
you  pause  and  muse,  with  the  finger  in  the  half-closed 
book. 

But  the  writer's  special  occupation  during  these  holi 
days  is  to  revise  and  consider  the  essays  which  make 
up  this  volume.  He  has  very  little  time  now  for  writ 
ing  such ;  and  the  little  time  is  growing  less.  The 
spare  hours  of  two  years  have  gone  to  the  production  of 
this  little  book.  It  will  always  be  pleasant  to  look  back 
on  time  so  pleasantly  spent.  And  these  chapters  have- 
already  met  so  kind  a  reception,  as  they  appeared  in 
that  dear  old  magazine  in  which  the  writer  saw  his 
earliest  article  in  print  and  his  latest,  and  in  another 
magazine  which  professes  to  publish  good  words,  though 
some  people  have  declared  it  to  be  a  bad  and  dangerous 
periodical,  that  the  indulgent  reader  may  easily  under 
stand  how  this  volume  has  been  added  to  the  list  of 
certain  which  have  gone  before.  Let  me  wish  for  this 


BY   THE    SEASIDE.  17 

book,  that  it  may  fall  into  as  kind  hands  as  the  rest,  and 
into  as  many. 

It  is  a  great  thing  to  have  some  occupation,  in  a  time 
and  place  like  this,  which  implies  no  exertion.  It  is 
pleasant  for  a  very  small  author  to  sit  down  on  a  rustic 
seat,  under  a  shady  tree,  or  on  a  rock  by  the  sea,  with 
the  murmuring  water  lapping  at  one's  feet ;  and  there 
peacefully  to  read  over  one's  essay.  A  distinguished 
American  author  has  put  on  record  the  feelings  with 
which  he  read  his  own  first  book.  He  says  frankly, 
"  I  never  read  a  more  interesting  volume ! "  Under 
the  shadow  of  that  illustrious  precedent,  it  may  be  con 
fessed,  that  though,  when  busy  with  serious  work,  you 
have  something  else  to  do  than  to  read  your  own  com 
positions,  yet,  in  a  season  of  leisure,  it  is  light  and 
pleasant  employment  for  an  author  to  do  so.  Some 
body,  once  on  a  time,  sent  me  a  lengthened  and  friendly 
criticism  of  these  essays,  in  which  it  was  yet  mentioned, 
as  a  ground  of  complaint,  that  no  mental  exertion  was 
needful  to  follow  them.  That  is  precisely  what  their 
author  wished ;  and  he  will  be  too  glad  to  think  that  it 
is  so.  He  has  pioneered  the  road,  through  the  jungle 
and  up  the  pass  :  he  trusts  it  is  smooth  and  easy.  Yet 
let  it  be  said,  that  what  is  easy  to  read  is,  for  the  most 
part,  difficult  to  write. 

Let  me  be  allowed  a  closing  word.  Why  does  the 
writer  call  himself  a  country  parson?  Years  have 
passed  since  he  left  that  beautiful  green  valley,  with 
the  river,  the  trees,  and  the  hills,  and  went  to  a  great 
city.  But  country  parson  is  the  name  that  suits  him, 
and  the  name  by  which  many  kind  friends  know  him. 
So  he  calls  himself  by  it,  just  as  his  friend  Smith  calls 


18  BY    THE   SEASIDE. 

himself  Smith.  It  is  not  that  that  individual  is  a  smith 
in  fact ;  but  that  Smith  is  the  name  by  which  people 
have  agreed  to  call  and  know  him.  The  ancestor  who 
first  bore  the  name  was  in  fact  a  smith ;  and  the  name 
of  Smith  continued  to  be  handed  down,  after  the  fact  of 
smith  ceased.  So  let  it  be  with  the  author's  cherished 
designation. 

And  there  is  more.  Though  he  now  does  the  duty 
of  a  parish  in  a  great  city,  it  is  the  city  in  which,  above 
all  others,  country  and  town  are  mingled  in  the  most 
charming  way.  In  the  parish  which  he  serves,  you 
may  even  find  beautiful  shady  walks,  and  expanses 
of  grass  and  flowers,  where  you  might  think  yourself 
far  from  town  smoke  and  bustle ;  and  indeed  you  are : 
for  in  that  most  beautiful  of  cities,  there  is  no  smoke 
and  little  bustle.  May  it  be  always  so. 


CHAPTER  II. 


CONCERNING  UNPRUNED  TREES. 


N  this  writing-table,  here  in  a  great  city, 
there  lie  two  large  priming-knives,  unused 
for  five  years.  They  look  inconsistent 
enough  with  the  usual  belongings  of  the 
work-room  of  the  incumbent  of  a  town  parish,  who,  on 
week-days,  walks  about  chiefly  upon  paving-stones,  and 
on  Sundays  preaches  to  city  folks.  But  Britons  know 
that  there  are  institutions  which  the  wise  man  would 
preserve,  though  their  day  and  their  use  have  passed 
away  ;  so  is  it  with  these  knives,  —  buckhorn  as  to  their 
handles,  and  black  with  rust  as  to  their  blades.  The 
writer  will  never  cast  them  away  ;  will  never  lock  them 
up  in  a  drawer  rarely  visited,  degrading  them  from  the 
prominent  and  easily  reached  spot  where  they  lay  in 
years  that  are  gone.  Never  again,  in  all  likelihood, 
will  those  knives  be  used  by  the  hand  that  was  wont  to 
use  them ;  yet  they  serve  their  owner  well  when  they 
bring  back  the*  pleasant  picture  of  days  when  he  was  a 
country  parson,  and  pruned  many  shrubs  and  trees ; 
walking  about  leisurely  in  the  enjoyment  of  snipping  off, 
as  a  schoolmaster  of  my  youth  was  accustomed  to  walk 


20  CONCERNING    UNPR  LINED    TREES. 

down  the  rows  of  boys,  busy  in  writing,  here  and  there 
coming  down  with  a  heavy  lash  on  some  unlucky  back, 
merely  for  his  own  recreation,  and  with  no  moral  aim. 
Yes,  there  is  a  tranquil  delight  in  pruning  ;  to  a  simple 
and  unfevered  mind,  it  is  a  very  fascinating  pursuit. 
And  it  is  a  good  sign  of  a  man,  if  he  finds  pleasure  in  it. 
Alas,  we  outgrow  the  days  in  which  it  makes  us  happy 
to  prune  trees ! 

The  reader,  who  is  given  to  pruning,  knows  how  very 
much  some  trees  need  it.  You  know  how  horribly 
awkward  and  ugly  an  old  bay  becomes,  after  it  has  been 
untended  for  years.  It  has  great  branches  which  stick 
out  most  ungracefully.  And  it  is  likely  enough  that 
the  whole  tree  is  so  inextricably  grown  into  that  un 
gainly  form,  that  it  is  best  to  saw  it  off  about  three  or 
four  feet  from  the  ground,  and  to  let  it  begin  to  grow 
anew.  Thus,  starting  afresh,  you  may  be  able  to  make 
it  a  pretty  and  graceful  object,  though  of  much  dimin 
ished  size.  There  are  trees  whose  nature  is  such  that 
they  can  do  with  little  or  no  pruning.  They  don't  need 
to  be  watched  ;  they  cost  no  trouble.  Such  is  a  Portu 
gal  laurel ;  such  is  a  weeping  birch  ;  such  is  a  beech  ; 
such  is  an  oak.  But  not  such  is  an  Irish  yew  ;  not  such 
is  an  apple-tree,  nor  any  kind  of  fruit-tree.  And  in  the 
days  when  you  were  the  possessor  of  trees,  and  were 
sometimes  a  good  deal  worried  by  the  charge  of  them,  I 
know  you  often  thought  what  a  blessing  it  is  that  there 
are  some  that  need  no  pruning ;  some  that,  once  put  in 
their  place,  you  may  let  alone.  For  there  were  some 
that  needed  ceaseless  tending ;  they  grew  horrible,  un 
less  you  were  always  watching  them,  and  cutting  off  this 
and  that  little  shoot  that  was  growing  in  a  wrong  direc- 


CONCERNING  UNPRUNED  TREES.       21 

tion.  It  was  an  awful  thing,  standing  beside  some  tree 
that  had  given  you  a  great  amount  of  trouble,  to  think 
what  it  would  come  to  if  it  were  just  left  to  itself. 

Most  human  beings  are  very  like  the  latter  order  of 
trees  ;  they  need  a  great  deal  of  pruning.  Little  odd 
habits,  the  rudiments  of  worse  habits,  need  every  now 
and  then  to  be  cut  off  and  corrected.  "VYe  should  all 
grow  very  singular,  ridiculous,  and  unamiable  creatures, 
but  for  the  pruning  we  have  got  from  hands  kind  and 
unkind,  from  our  earliest  days  ;  but  for  the  pruning  we 
are  getting  from  such  hands  yet.  Perhaps  you  have 
known  a  man  who  had  lived  for  forty  years  alone.  And 
you  know  what  odd  shoots  he  had  sent  out;  what 
strange  traits  and  habits  he  had  acquired ;  what  singu 
lar  little  ways  he  had  got  into.  There  had  been  no  one 
at  home  to  prune  him  ;  and  the  little  shoots  of  eccentri 
city,  of  vanity,  of  vain  self-estimation,  that  might  have 
easily  been  cut  off  when  they  were  green  and  soft,  have 
now  grown  into  rigidity.  Woody  fibre  has  been  devel 
oped  ;  and  if  you  were  to_  try  to  cut  off  the  oddity  now, 
it  would  be  like  trying  to  lop  off  a  tough  oak  branch  a 
foot  thick  with  a  penknife.  You  cannot  do  it ;  if  you 
were  to  succeed  in  doing  it,  you  would  thereby  change 
the  whole  man.  Equally  grown  into  rigid  awkward 
ness  with  the  man  who  has  lived  a  very  solitary  life, 
the  man  is  likely  to  be,  who,  for  many  years,  has  been 
the  pope  of  a  little  circle  of  admiring  disciples,  no  one 
of  whom  would  ever  contradict  him,  no  one  of  whom 
would  ever  venture  to  say  he  judged  or  did  wrong.  In 
such  a  case,  not  merely  are  the  angularities,  the  odd,  un 
gainly  shoots,  not  cut  off;  they  are  actually  fostered. 
And  a  really  good  man  grows  into  a  bundle  of  awk- 


22  CONCERNING   UNPRUNED   TREES. 

wardnesses  and  oddities,  and  stiffens  hopelessly  into 
these.  And  these  greatly  lessen  his  influence  and  use 
fulness  with  people  who  do  not  know  his  real  excellen 
ces.  You  cannot  read  the  life  of  Mr.  Simeon,  of  Cam 
bridge,  without  lamenting  that  there  was  not  some  kind 
yet  firm  hand  always  near  him,  to  prune  off  the 
wretched  little  shoots  of  self-conceit  and  silliness  which 
obscured,  in  great  measure,  the  sterling  qualities  of  the 
man.  You  may  remember  reading  how,  on  an  occa 
sion  on  which  some  good  ladies  had  collected  pieces  of 
needle-work  to  be  sold  for  a  missionary  purpose,  he 
came  to  behold  them.  He  skipped  into  the  room,  held 
up  his  hands  in  a  theatrical  ecstasy  of  admiration,  and 
went  through  various  ungainly  gambols,  and  uttered 
various  wretched  jokes,  by  way  of  compliment  to  the 
good  ladies.  I  don't  tell  you  the  story  at  length ;  it  is 
too  humiliating.  Now  do  you  think  the  good  man 
would  ever  have  done  this,  had  he  lived  among  people 
who  durst  question  his  infallibility  and  impeccability  ? 
What  a  blessing  it  would  have  been  for  him  had  there 
been  some  one  on  such  terms  with  him  that  he  could 
say,  "  Now,  Simeon,  dear  fellow,  don't  make  a  fool  of 
yourself ! " 

It  is  at  once  apparent,  that  when  some  really  kind 
and  judicious  friend,  or  even  some  judicious  person  who 
is  not  a  kind  friend,  says  to  you,  as  you  are  saying 
something,  "  Smith,  you're  talking  nonsense ;  shut  up, 
and  don't  make  a  fool  of  yourself,"  this  fact  is  highly 
analogous  to  the  fact  of  a  keen  pruning-knife  snipping 
off  a  shoot  that  is  growing  in  a  wrong  direction.  And 
you  may  have  seen  a  good  man,  accustomed  to  dwell 
among  those  who  never  dared  to  differ  from  him,  look 


CONCERNING  UNPRUNED  TREES.       23 

as  if  the  world  were  suddenly  coming  to  an  end,  when 
some  courageous  person  said  to  his  face  what  many  per 
sons  had  frequently  said  behind  his  back  ;  to  wit,  that 
he  was  talking  nonsense.  You  may  find  a  house  here 
and  there  in  which  the  gray  mare  is  the  more  energetic, 
if  not  the  better  horse;  where  the  husband  has  been 
constrained  by  years  of  outrageous  ill-temper  to  give 
the  wife  her  own  way  ;  and  where,  accordingly,  the 
mistress  of  the  house  has  lived  for  thirty  years  without 
once  being  told  she  did  wrong.  The  tree,  that  is,  had 
never  been  pruned  in  all  that  time ;  and  you  may  im 
agine  what  an  ugly  and  disagreeable  tree  it  had  grown. 
For  people  who  get  their  own  way  have  nothing  to 
repress  their  evil  and  ridiculous  tendencies,  except  their 
own  sense  of  propriety ;  and  I  have  little  faith  in  the 
practical  guidance  of  that  sense,  unless  it  be  reinforced 
and  directed  by  the  moral  and  aesthetic  sense  of  other 
people.  A  tree,  when  pruned,  suffers  in  silence  ;  no 
doubt,  it  cannot  like  being  pruned ;  it  would  like  to 
have  its  own  way.  But  the  pruning  of  a  human  being, 
accustomed  to  his  or  her  own  way,  is  often  accompanied 
by  much  moral  kicking  and  howling.  Such  a  person, 
in  those  years  without  pruning,  has  very  likely  got  con 
firmed  in  many  ridiculous  and  disagreeable  habits  ;  has 
learned  to  sit  with  his  feet  upon  the  mantle-piece ;  has 
come  to  use  ungrammatical  and  ugly  forms  of  speech ; 
has  grown  into  rubbing  his  nose,  or  twirling  his  thumbs, 
or  making  pills  of  paper  while  conversing  with  others. 
Indeed  there  is  no  reckoning  the  ugly  growths  into 
which  unpruned  human  nature  will  develop  itself;  and 
self-conceited  and  haughty  and  petted  folk  deliberately 
deprive  themselves  of  that  salutary  tending  and  pruning 


24  CONCERNING   UNPRUNED    TREES. 

which  is  needful  to  keep  them  in  decent  shape.  There 
was  once  a  man,  who  was  much  given  to  advocating  the 
admission  of  fresh  air  ;  an  excellent  end.  But,  of  course, 
in  advocating  it,  the  word  ventilation  had  frequently 
to  be  used;  and  that  man  made  himself  ridiculous  in  the 
eyes  of  all  educated,  people  by  invariably  pronouncing 
the  word  as  ventulation.  For  a  long  time,  a  youthful 
relative  of  that  man  suffered  in  silence  the  terrible  an 
noyance  of  listening  to  the  word  thus  rendered ;  and 
there  are  few  more  irritating  things  among  the  minor 
vexations  of  life  than  to  be  compelled  habitually  to 
listen  to  some  vulgar  and  illiterate  error  in  speech. 
Perhaps  you  have  felt  a  burning  desire  to  prune  a  per 
son,  who  talked  of  some  trouble  being  tremenduous  ;  or 
who  said,  he  would  rather  go  to  Jericho  as  hear  Dr. 
Log  preach ;  or  who  declared,  the  day  to  be  that  hot 
that  he  was  nearly  killed.  Oh,  the  thought  of  such  ex 
pressions  makes  one's  nerves  tingle,  and  one's  hand 
steal  towards  the  pruning-knife.  But  after  long  en 
durance,  the  youthful  relative  of  the  man  who  talked 
about  ventulation  could  stand  it  no  longer,  and  ven 
tured  humbly  to  suggest  that  ventilation  was  the  pref 
erable  way  of  setting  forth  the  word.  Ah,  the  tree  did 
not  take  the  pruning  peaceably  !  Wasn't  there  an  ex 
plosion  of  vanity  and  spite  and  stupidity  ?  Was  not 
the  youthful  individual  scorched  with  furious  sarcasm, 
for  pretending  to  know  better  than  his  seniors,  and  for 
venturing  to  think  that  his  betters  could  go  wrong ! 
From  that  day  forward,  he  resolved  that  however  hide 
ous  the  shoots  of  ignorance  and  conceit  his  seniors  put 
forth,  he  would  not  venture  to  correct  them.  For  there 
is  nothing  that  so  infuriates  an  uneducated  and  self- 


CONCERNING  UNPRUNED    TREES.  25 

sufficient  man  of  more  than  middle  age,  as  the  faintest 
and  best-disguised  attempt  to  prune  him.  '-'  Are  you 
sure  that  your  data  is  correct  ?  "  said  a  vulgar  rich  man 
to  an  educated  poor  man.  "  Data  ARE  correct,  I  think 
you  mean,"  said  the  poor  man  (rather  hastily),  before 
going. on  to  answer  the  question.  The  rich  man's  face 
reddened  like  an  infuriated  turkey-cock;  and  had  there 
been  a  cudgel  in  his  hand,  he  would  have  beaten  the 
pruner  upon  the  head.  Yes;  it  is  thankless  work  to 
wield  the  moral  pruning-knife. 

Probably  among  the  class  of  old  bachelors  you  may 
find  the  most  signal  instances  of  the  evil  consequence 
of  going  through  life  with  nobody  to  prune  one.  I 
could  easily  record  such  manifestations  of  silliness  and 
absurdity  in  the  case  of  such  men  as  would  be  incredi 
ble.  Of  course  I  am  not  going  to  do  so.  An  old  bach 
elor  of  some  standing,  living  in  a  solitary  house,  with 
servants  who  dare  not  prune  him,  and  with  acquaint 
ances  who  will  not  take  the  trouble  to  prune  him,  must 
necessarily,  unless  he  be  a  very  wise  and  good  man, 
grow  into  a  most  amorphous  shape.  I  beg  the  reader 
to  mark  the  exception  I  make :  for  I  presume  he  will 
agree  with  me  when  I  say,  that  in  the  class  of  old  bach 
elors  and  old  maids  may  be  found  some  of  the  noblest 
specimens  of  the  human  race.  A  judicious  wife  is 
always  snipping  off  from  her  husband's  moral  nature  lit 
tle  twigs  that  are  growing  in  wrong  directions.  She 
keeps  him  in  shape,  by  continual  pruning.  If  you  say 
anything  silly,  she  will  affectionately  tell  you  so.  If  you 
declare  that  you  will  do  some  absurd  thing,  she  will  find 
means  of  preventing  your  doing  it.  And  by  far  the 
chief  part  of  all  the  common  sense  there  is  in  this  world 

2 


26  CONCERNING   UNPRUNED   TREES. 

belongs  unquestionably  to  women.  The  wisest  thing  a 
man  commonly  does  are  those  which  his  wife  counsels 
him  to  do.  It  is  not  always  so.  You  may  have  known 
a  man  do,  at  the  instigation  of  his  wife,  things  so  mali 
cious,  petty,  and  stupid,  that  it  is  inconceivable  any  man 
should  ever  do  them  at  all.  But  such  cases  are  excep 
tional. 

My  friend  Jones,  when  a  boy  of  fourteen,  went  to 
visit  a  relative,  a  rich  old  bachelor.  That  relative  was 
substantially  a  very  kind  person ;  that  is,  he  gave 
Jones  lots  of  money,  and  the  like.  But  Jones,  an  ob 
servant  lad,  speedily  took  his  relative's  measure.  The 
first  evening  Jones  was  with  him,  the  old  bachelor  said, 
in  a  very  cordial  way,  "  Now,  Tom,  my  boy,  it  is  my 
duty  to  tell  you  something.  You  have'  been  trained  up 
to  believe  that  your  father "  (a  clergyman)  "  is  an  able 
and  dignified  person.  It  is  right  that  you  should  know 
that  he  is  a  very  poor  stick." 

Jones  listened,  without  remark,  but  with  rather  a 
scared  face.  It  was  a  trial  to  the  young  fellow.  It 
was  a  shock  to  his  belief  in  things  in  general,  to  hear 
his  father  thus  spoken  of.  And  Jones,  who  is  now  a 
man,  tells  me  that  though  he  said  nothing,  he  inwardly 
groaned,  looking  at  his  wealthy  relative.  "You're  a 
horrid  old  fool."  And  in  all  the  years  that  have  passed 
since  then,  Jones  assures  me  he  has  not  in  the  least 
modified  that  early  opinion. 

Now,  don't  you  feel  that  no  married  man  would  have 
so  behaved  ?  Even  if  he  were  such  an  ass  as  to  begin 
to  say  such  a  thing  to  a  little  boy,  don't  you  feel  his  wife 
(if  present)  would  have  taken  care  that  the  sentence 
was  never  finished  ? 


CONCERNING  UNPRUNED  TREES.        27 

The  same  person  began  to  tell  Jones  about  the  opera ; 
and  all  of  a  sudden,  to  the  lad's  consternation,,  he  burst 
out  into  some  awful  roars.  Jones  was  terrified.  He 
thought  his  relative  had  gone  mad,  or  was  suddenly 
seized  by  some  unusual  and  terrible  disease.  But  the  old 
gentleman  said,  with  great  self-complacency,  "That 's  just 
to  give  you  some  idea  what  the  human  voice  is  capable 
of!  "  Jones  secretly  thought  that  it  gave  him  some  idea 
what  a  fool  an  old  gentleman  might  make  of  himself. 

I  have  heard  of  an  extremely  commonplace  man,  who 
lived  an  utterly  solitary  life  in  London.  He  had  gained 
considerable  wealth :  but  he  had  nothing  else  to  stand 
on  ;  and  he  was  not  rich  enough  to  stand  on  that  alone. 
The  worthy  man  has  been  in  his  grave  for  many  years. 
Having  heard  that  Mr.  Brown  had  stated  that  he  did 
not  know  him,  he  exclaimed  :  "  He  does  not  know  ME  ! 
Well,  there  is  no  act  of  Parliament  to  make  people  know 
about  me.  All  I  can  say  is,  that  if  he  does  not  know 
about  me.  he  is  an  ill-informed  man  !  "  This  was  not  a 
joke.  It  was  said  in  bitter  earnest.  For  when  a  young 
fellow  who  was  present  showed  a  tendency  to  smile  at 
this  outburst  of  self-conceit  nursed  in  solitude,  the  young 
fellow  was  furiously  ordered  out  of  the  room. 

Doubtless  you  have  remarked,  with  satisfaction,  how 
the  little  oddities  of  men  who  marry  rather  late  in  life 
are  pruned  away  speedily  after  their  marriage.  You 
have  found  a  man  who  used  to  be  shabbily  and  carelessly 
dressed,  with  a  huge  shirt-collar  frayed  at  the  edges, 
and  a  glaring  yellow  silk  pocket  handkerchief,  broken 
of  these  things,  and  become  a  pattern  of  neatness.  You 
have  seen  a  man  whose  hair  and  whiskers  were  ridic 
ulously  cut  speedily  become  like  other  human  be- 


28  CONCERNING  UNPRUNED  TREES. 

ings.  You  have  seen  a  clergyman,  who  wore  a  long 
beard,  in  a  little  wrhile  appear  without  one.  You  have 
seen  a  man,  who  used  to  sing  ridiculous,  sentimental 
songs,  leave  them  off.  You  have  seen  a  man  who 
took  snuff  copiously,  and  who  generally  had  his  breast 
covered  with  snuff,  abandon  the  vile  habit.  A  wife 
is  the  grand  wielder  of  the  moral  pruning-knife.  If 
Johnson's  wife  had  lived,  there  would  have  been  no 
hoarding  up  of  bits  of  orange  peel,  no  touching  all  the 
posts  in  walking  along  the  street,  no  eating  and  drink 
ing  with  a  disgusting  voracity.  If  Oliver  Goldsmith 
had  been  married,  he  would  never  have  worn  that  mem 
orable  and  ridiculous  coat.  Whenever  you  find  a  man 
whom  you  know  little  about,  oddly  dressed,  or  talking 
absurdly,  or  exhibiting  any  eccentricity  of  manner,  you 
may  be  tolerably  sure  that  he  is  not  a  married  man. 
For  the  little  corners  are  rounded  off,  the  little  shoots 
are  pruned  away,  in  married  men.  Wives  generally 
have  much  more  sense  than  their  husbands,  especially 
when  the  husbands  are  clever  men.  The  wife's  advices 
are  like  the  ballast  that  keeps  the  ship  steady.  They 
are  like  the  wholesome  though  painful  shears,  snipping 
off  little  growths  of  self-conceit  and  folly. 

So  you  may  see,  that  it  is  not  good  for  man  to  be 
alone.  For  he  will  put  out  various  shoots  at  his  own 
sour  will,  which  will  grow  into  monstrously  ugly  and 
absurd  branches,  unless  they  are  pruned  away  while  they 
are  young.  .But  it  is  quite  as  bad,  perhaps  it  is  worse, 
to  live  among  people  with  whom  you  are  an  oracle. 
There  are  many  good  Protestants  who,  by  a  long  con 
tinuance  of  such  a  life,  have  come  to  believe  their  own 
infallibility  much  more  strongly  than  the  pope  believes 


CONCERNING  UNPRUNED  TREES.  29 

his.  An  only  brother  amid  a  large  family  of  sisters  is 
in  a  perilous  position.  There  is  a  risk  of  his  coming  to 
think  himself  the  greatest,  wisest,  and  best  of  men  ;  the 
most  graceful  dancer,  the  most  melodious  singer,  the 
sweetest  poet,  the  most  unerring  shot;  also  the  best- 
dressed  man,  and  the  possessor  of  the  most  beautiful 
hands,  feet,  eyes,  and  whiskers.  And  as  the  outer  world 
is  sure  not  to  accept  this  estimate,  the  only  brother  is 
apt  to  be  soured  by  the  sharp  contrast  between  the 
adulation  at  home  and  the  snubbing  abroad.  A  popular 
clergyman,  with  a  congregation  somewhat  lacking  in  in 
telligence,  is  exposed  to  a  prejudicial  moral  atmosphere. 
It  is  a  dreadful  sight  to  see  some  clergymen  surrounded 
by  the  members  of  their  flock.  You  see  them,  with 
dilated  nostrils,  inhaling  the  incense  directly  and  indi 
rectly  offered.  It  irritates  one  to  hear  such  a  person 
spoken  of  (as  I  have  heard  in  my  youth)  as  "  the  dear 
man,"  "  the  precious  man,"  or  even,  in  some  cases,  "  the 
sweet  man."  It  is  a  great  deal  too  much  for  average 
human  nature  to  live  among  people  who  agree  with  all 
one  says,  and  think  it  very  fine.  We  all  need  "  the 
animated  No  "  ;  a  forest  tree  will  not  grow  up  healthily 
and  strong  unless  you  let  the  rude  blasts  wrestle  with  it 
and  root  it  firmer.  It  is  insufferable  when  any  mortal 
lives  in  a  moral  hot-house.  And  if  there  be  anything 
for  which  a  clergyman  ought  to  be  thankful,  it  is  if  his 
congregation,  though  duly  esteeming  him  for  his  office 
and  for  his  work,  have  so  much  good  sense  as  to  refrain 
from  spoiling  him  by  deferring  unduly  to  all  his  crotch 
ets.  Let  there  be  as  few  worsted  slippers  as  possible 
sent  him  ;  no  bouquets  laid  on  his  study  table  by  youth 
ful  hands  before  he  comes  down  stairs  in  the  morning ; 


30  CONCERNING  UNPRUNED   TREES. 

no  young  women  preserving  under  a  glass  shade  the 
glove  they  wore  in  shaking  hands  with  him,  that  it  may 
be  profaned  by  no  inferior  touch.  Let  the  phrase  dear 
man  be  utterly  excluded.  A  manly  person  does  not 
want  to  be  made  a  pet  of.  And  if  there  be  any  occasion 
on  which  a  man  of  sense,  bishop  or  not,  ought  to  be 
filled  with  shame  and  confusion,  it  is  when  man  or 
woman  kneels  down  and  asks  his  blessing.  Pray,  how 
much  is  the  blessing  worth  ?  What  good  will  it  do 
anybody?  Most  educated  men  have  a  very  decided 
estimate  of  its  value,  which  would  be  expressed  in  fig 
ures  by  a  round  O. 

One  great  good  of  a  great  public  school  is  the  way 
in  which  the  moral  pruning-knife  is  wielded  there.  I 
do  not  mean  by  the  masters,  but  by  the  republic  of 
boys.  Many  a  lad  of  rank  and  fortune,  in  whom  the 
evil  shoots  of  arrogance,  self-conceit,  contempt  for  his 
fellow  creatures,  and  a  notion  that  he  himself  is  the 
mightiest  of  mortals,  have  been  fostered  at  home  by  the 
adulation  of  servants,  and  cottagers,  and  tenantry,  has 
these  evil  shoots  effectually  shred  away.  You  have 
heard,  of  course,  how  the  Duke  of  Middlesex  and 
Southwark  came  to  his  title  as  a  baby,  and  grew  up 
under  the  care  of  obsequious  tutors  and  governors  till 
lie  had  attained  the  age  to  go  to  school.  The  first  even 
ing  he  was  there,  he  was  standing  at  a  corner  of  the 
playground,  with  a  supercilious  air,  surveying  the  sports 
that  were  proceeding.  A  boy  about  his  own  size  per 
ceived  him,  and  running  up,  said,  with  some  curiosity, 
"  Who  are  you  ? "  "  The  Duke  of  Middlesex  and 
Southwark,"  was  the  reply.  "  Oh,"  said  the  other  boy, 
with  awakened  interest,  "there's  one  kick  for  the 


CONCERNING  UNPRUNED  TREES.  31 

Duke  of  Middlesex  and  another  for  the  Duke  of  South- 
wark  " ;  and  having  thus  delivered  himself,  he  ran  away. 
O,  what  a  sharp  pair  of  shears  in  that  moment  pruned 
off  certain  shoots  which  had  been  growing  in  that  little 
peer's  nature  ever  since  the  dawn  of  intelligence !  The 
awful  yet  salutary  truth  was  impressed,  by  a  single  les 
son,  that  there  were  places  in  this  world  where  nobody 
cared  for  the  Duke  of  Middlesex  and  Southwark.  And 
perhaps  that  painful  pruning  was  the  beginning  of  the 
discipline  which  made  that  duke,  as  long  as  he  lived, 
the  most  unpretending,  admirable,  and  truly  noble  of 
men. 

There  are  few  people  in  public  life  who  in  this  age 
are  not  promptly  primed,  where  needful,  by  ever-ready 
shears*  If  the  shoots  of  bumptiousness  appear  in  a 
chief  justice,  they  are  instantly  cut  short  by  the  tongue 
of  some  resolute  barrister.  If  a  prime  minister,  or 
even  a  loftier  personage,  evinces  a  disposition  to  neglect 
his  or  her  duty,  that  disposition  is  speedily  pruned  by 
the  Times ;  speaking  in  the  name  of  the  general  sense 
of  what  is  fit.  And  indeed  the  newspapers  and  reviews 
are  the  universal  shears.  If  any  outgrowth  of  folly, 
error,  or  conceit  appear  in  a  political  man,  or  in  a 
writer  of  even  moderate  standing,  some  clever  article 
comes  down  upon  it,  and  shows  it  up  if  it  cannot  snip 
it  off.  And  if  a  wise  man  desires  that  he  may  keep, 
intellectually  and  aesthetically,  in  becoming  shape,  he  will 
attentively  consider  whatever  may  be  said  or  written 
about  him  by  people  who  dislike  him.  For,  as  a 
general  rule,  people  who  don't  like  you  come  down 
sharply  upon  your  real  faults ;  they  tell  you  things 
which  it  is  very  fit  that  you  should  know,  and  which 


32  CONCERNING  UNPRUNED  TREES. 

nobody  is  likely  to  tell  you  but  them.  I  have  heard  of 
one  or  two  distinguished  authors  who  made  it  a  rule 
never  to  read  anything  that  was  written  about  them 
selves.  Probably  they  erred  in  this.  They  missed 
many  hints  for  which  they  might  have  been  the  better. 
And  mannerisms  and  eccentricities  developed  into  rigid 
boughs,  which  might  have  been  readily  removed  as 
growing  twigs. 

A  vain  self-confidence  is  very  likely  to  grow  up  in  a 
man  who  is  never  subjected  to  the  moral  pruning-knife. 
The  greatest  men  (in  their  own  judgment)  that  you 
have  ever  known  have  probably  been  the  magnates  of 
some  little  village,  far  from  neighbors.  Probably  the 
bully  is  never  developed  more  offensively  than  in  some 
village  dealer,  who  has  accumulated  a  good  deal  of 
money,  and  who  has  got  a  number  of  the  surrounding 
cottages  mortgaged  to  him.  Such  is  the  man  who  is 
likely  to  insult  the  conservative  candidate,  when  he 
comes  to  make  a  speech  before  an  election.  Such  is 
the  man  to  lead  the  opposition  to  any  good  work  pro 
posed  by  the  parish  clergyman.  Such  is  the  man  to 
become  a  church-rate  martyr,  or  an  especially  offensive 
manager  of  Salem  chapel.  Such  is  the  kind  of  man 
who,  if  he  has  children  growing  up,  will  refuse  to  let 
them  express  their  opinion  on  any  subject.  A  parent 
can  fall  into  no  greater  mistake  than  to  take  the  ground 
that  he  will  never  argue  with  his  children,  nor  hear 
what  they  may  have  to  suggest  in  opposition  to  any 
plan  he  may  have  proposed.  For  children  very  speed 
ily  take  the  measure  of  their  parents ;  and  have  a  per 
fectly  clear  idea  how  far  their  ability,  judgment,  and 
education  justify  their  assuming  the  rank  of  infallible 


CONCERNING  UNPRUNED  TREES.        33 

oracles.  And  it  is  infinitely  better  to  let  a  lad  of  eigh 
teen  speak  out  his  mind,  than  to  have  him  like  a  boiler 
ready  to  burst  with  repressed  views  and  feelings,  and 
with  the  bitter  sense  of  a  petty  and  contemptible  tyran 
ny.  Something  has  already  been  said  of  women  who 
acquire  the  chief  power  in  their  own  houses ;  whose 
husbands  are  cowed  into  ciphers ;  and  whose  infalli 
bility  is  to  be  recognized  throughout  the  establishment, 
under  pain  of  some  ferocious  explosion.  At  last,  some 
son  grows  up,  and  resists  the  established  despotism. 
Infallibility  and  impeccability  are  conceded  no  longer. 
And  the  thick  branches,  consolidated  by  many  years' 
growth,  are  lopped  off  painfully,  which  should  have 
gone  when  they  were  slender  shoots.  Rely  upon  it,  the 
man  or  woman  who  refuses  to  be  peaceably  and  kindly 
pruned,  will  some  day  have  to  bear  being  rudely  lopped. 

There  is  one  shoot  which  human  nature  keeps  put 
ting  forth  again,  however  frequently  it  is  pruned  away. 
It  is  self-conceit.  That  would  grow  into  a  terrible  un 
wieldy  branch,  if  it  were  not  so  often  shred  away  by 
circumstances;  that  is,  by  God's  providence.  Every 
body  needs  to  be  frequently  taken  down ;  which  means, 
to  have  his  self-conceit  pruned  away.  And  what  every 
body  needs,  most  people  *(in  this  case)  get.  Most  peo 
ple  are  very  frequently  taken  down. 

I  mean,  even  modest  and  sensible  people.  This 
wretched  little  shoot  keeps  growing  again,  however 
bard  we  try  to  keep  it  down.  There  is  a  tendency  in 
each  of  us  to  be  growing  up  into  a  higher  opinion  of 
ourself ;  and  then,  all  of  a  sudden,  that  higher  estimate 
is  cut  down  to  the  very  earth.  You  are  like  a  sheep 
suddenly  shorn :  a  thick  fleece  of  self-complacency  had 


34  CONCERNING  UNPRUNED  TREES. 

developed  itself;  something  comes  and  all  at  once 
shears  it  off,  and  leaves  you  shivering  in  the  frosty  air. 
You  are  like  a  lawn,  where  the  grass  had  grown  some 
inches  in  length,  till  some  dewy  morning  it  is  mown 
just  as  close  as  may  be.  You  had  gradually  and  insen 
sibly  come  to  think  rather  well  of  yourself  and  your 
doings.  You  had  grown  to  think  your  position  in  life 
a  rather  respectable  or  even  eminent  one,  and  to  fancy 
that  those  around  estimated  you  rather  highly.  But  all 
of  a  sudden,  some  slight,  some  mortification,  some  disap 
pointment  comes  ;  something  is  said  or  done  that  shows 
you  how  far  you  have  been  deceiving  yourself.  Some 
considerable  place  in  your  profession  becomes  vacant, 
and  nobody  thinks  of  naming  you  for  it.  You  are  in 
company  with  two  or.  three  men  who  think  themselves 
specially  charged  with  finding  a  suitable  person  for  the 
vacant  office  :  they  name  a  score  of  possible  people  to 
fill  it,  but  not  you.  They  never  have  thought  of  you  : 
or  possibly  they  refrain  from  naming  you,  with  the  de 
sign  of  mortifying  you.  And  so  you  are  pruned  close. 
For  the  moment,  it  is  painful.  You  are  ready  to  sink 
down,  disheartened  and  beaten.  You  have  no  energy 
to  do  anything.  You  sit  down  blankly  by  the  fire,  and 
acknowledge  yourself  a  failure  in  life.  It  is  not  so 
much  that  you  are  beaten,  as  that  you  are  set  in  a  lower 
place  than  you  hoped.  Yet  it  is  all  good  for  us,  doubt 
less.  Few  men  can  say  they  are  too  humble  with  it  all. 
And  as  even  after  all  our  mowings,  prunings,  and 
shearings,  we  are  sometimes  so  conceited  and  self-satis 
fied  as  we  are,  what  should  we  have  been  had  those 
things  not  befallen  us  ?  The  elf-locks  of  wool  would 
have  been  feet  in  length.  The  grass  would  have  been 


CONCERNING  UNPRUNED  TREES.  35 

six  feet  high,  like  that  of  the  prairies.  And  the  shoot 
of  vanity  would  have  grown  and  consolidated  into  a 
branch,  that  would  have  given  a  lopsided  aspect  to  the 
whole  tree. 

Happily,  there  is  no  chance  of  these  things  occurring. 
We  seldom  grow  for  more  than  a  few  days,  without  be 
ing  pruned,  mown,  and  shorn  afresh.  And  all  this  will 
continue  to  the  end.  It  is  not  pleasant ;  but  we  need  it 
all.  And  we  are  all  profiting  by  it.  Possibly  no  one 
will  read  this  page,  who  does  not  know  that  he  thinks 
more  humbly  of  himself  now  than  he  did  ten  years 
since ;  and  ten  years  hence,  if  we  live,  we  shall  think 
of  ourselves  more  humbly  still. 

Yes :  we  have  all  been  severely  pruned,  in  many 
ways.  Perhaps  our  sprays  and  blossoms  have  been 
shred  away  by  a  knife  so  unsparing,  that  we  are  cut 
very  much  into  the  form  of  a  pollarded  tree.  Perhaps 
we  have  been  pruned  too  much,  and  the  spring  and  the 
nonsense  taken  out  of  us  only  too  effectually.  Certain 
awkward  knots  are  left  in  the  wood,  where  some  cher 
ished  hope  was  snipped  off  by  the  fatal  shears,  or  some 
youthful  affection  (in  the  case  of  sentimental  people) 
came  to  nothing ;  and  it  was  like  cutting  a  tree  over, 
not  far  above  the  roots,  when  a  man  was  made  to  feel 
that  his  entire  aim  in  life  was  no  better  than  a  dismal 
failure.  But  it  was  all  for  the  best ;  and  defeat,  bravely 
borne,  is  the  noblest  of  victories.  What  an  overbear 
ing,  insolent  person  you  would  have  been,  if  you  had 
always  got  your  own  way,  if  your  boyish  fancies  had 
come  true!  What  an  odd  stick  you  would  have  be 
come,  had  you  been  one  of  the  Unpruued  Trees ! 


CHAPTER    III. 


CONCERNING    UGLY    DUCKS  :    BEING    SOME 
THOUGHTS   ON  MISPLACED   MEN. 

]OME  men's  geese,  it  has  occasionally  been 
said,  are  all  swans.  Dr.  Newman  declares 
that  this  was  so  with  the  great  Archbishop 
Whately  of  Dublin.  Read  this  page,  intel 
ligent  person ;  and  you  shall  be  informed  about  an  Ugly 
Duck,  and  what  it  proved  in  truth  to  be. 

Rather,  you  shall  be  reminded  of  what  you  doubt 
less  know  already.  The  story  is  not  mine :  it  was 
originally  devised  by  somebody  much  wiser  and  possibly 
somewhat  better.  I  propose  to  do  no  more  than  tell 
afresh  and  briefly  what  has  been  told  at  much  greater 
length  before.  No  doubt  it  has  touched  and  comforted 
many  to  read  it.  For  there  may  be  much  wisdom  and 
great  consolation  in  a  fairy  tale. 

Amid  a  family  of  little  ducks,  there  was  one  very 
big,  ugly,  and  awkward.  He  looked  so  odd  and  un 
couth,  that  those  who  beheld  him  generally  felt  that  he 
wanted  a  thrashing.  And  in  truth,  he  frequently  got 
one.  He  was  bitten,  pushed  about,  and  laughed  at  by 
all  the-  ducks,  and  even  by  the  hens,  of  the  house  to 
which  he  belonged.  Thus  the  poor  creature  was  quite 


THOUGHTS  ON  MISPLACED  MEN.  37 

cast  down  under  the  depressing  sense  of  his  ugliness  ; 
and  the  members  of  his  own  family  used  him  worst  of 
all.  He  ran  away  from  home,  and  lived  for  a  while  in 
a  cottage  with  a  cat  and  an  old  woman.  Here,  likewise, 
he  failed  to  be  appreciated.  For  chancing  to  tell  them 
how  he  liked  to  dive  under  the  water  and  feel  it  closing 
over  his  head,  they  laughed  at  him,  and  said  he  was  a 
fool.  All  he  could  say  in  reply  was,  "  You  can't  under 
stand  me  !  "  "  Not  understand  you,  indeed,"  they  re 
plied  in  wrath,  and  thrashed  him. 

But  he  gradually  grew  older  and  stronger.  One  day 
he  saw  at  a  distance  certain  beautiful  birds,  snow-white, 
with  magnificent  wings.  Impelled  by  something  within 
him,  he  could  not  but  fly  towards  them,  though  expect 
ing  to  be  repulsed  and  perhaps  killed  for  his  presump 
tion.  But  suddenly  looking  into  the  lake  below  him, 
he  beheld  not  the  old  ugly  reflection,  but  something 
large,  white,  graceful.  The  beautiful  birds  hailed  him 
as  a  companion.  The  stupid  people  had  thought  him 
an  ugly  duck,  because  he  was  too  good  for  them.  They 
could  not  understand  him,  nor  see  the  great  promise 
of  that  uncouth  aspect.  The  ugly  duck  proved  to  be  a 
Swan ! 

He  was  not  proud,  that  wise  bird ;  but  he  was  very 
happy.  Now,  everybody  said  he  was  the  most  beau 
tiful  of  all  beautiful  birds ;  and  he  remembered  how, 
once  upon  a  time,  everybody  had  laughed  at  him  and 
thrashed  him.  Yes:  he  was  appreciated  at  his  true 
value  at  last! 

Possibly,  my  friendly  reader,  you  have  known  vari 
ous  Ugly  Ducks,  —  men  who  were  held  in  little  esteem, 
because  they  were  too  good  for  the  people  among  whom 


88  CONCERNING  UGLY  DUCKS: 

they  lived,  —  men  who  were  held  in  little  esteem,  be 
cause  it  needed  more  wit  than  those  around  them  pos 
sessed  to  discern  the  makings  of  great  and  good  things 
under  their  first  unpromising  aspect.  When  John  Fos 
ter,  many  years  ago,  preaching  to  little  pragmatic  com 
munities  of  uneducated,  stupid,  and  self-conceited  sec 
taries,  was  declared  by  old  women  and  young  whipper- 
snappers,  to  be  A  PERFECT  FOOL,  he  was  an  Ugly 
Duck  of  the  first  kind.  When  Keats  published  his 
earliest  poetry,  and  when  Mr.  Gifford  bitterly  showed 
up  all  its  extravagance  and  mawkishness,  and  positively 
refused  to  discern  under  all'  that  the  faculties  which 
would  be  matured  and  tamed  into  those  of  a  true  poet, 
Keats  was  an  Ugly  Duck  of  the  second  kind.  John 
Foster  was  esteemed  an  Ugly  Duck  at  the  time  when 
he  actually  was  a  Swan,  because  the  people  who  esti 
mated  him  were  such  blockheads  that  they  did  not 
know  a  swan  when  they  saw  one.  Keats  was  esteemed 
an  Ugly  Duck,  because  he  really  was  an  awkward, 
shambling,  odd  animal ;  and  his  critic  had  not  patience, 
or  had  not  insight,  to  discern  something  about  him  that 
promised  he  would  yet  grow  into  that  which  a  mere 
Duck  could  never  be.  For  the  creature  which  is  by 
nature  a  Swan,  and  which  will  some  day  be  known  for 
such  by  all,  may  in  truth  be,  at  an  early  stage  in  its 
development,  an  uglier,  more  offensive,  more  impudent 
and  forward,  more  awkward  and  more  insufferable  ani 
mal,  than  the  creature  which  is  by  nature  a  Duck,  and 
which  will  never  be  taken  for  anything  more. 

Yes,  many  men,  with  the  gift  of  genius  in  them,  and 
many  more,  with  no  gift  of  genius  but  with  a  little  more 
industry  and  ability  than  their  fellows,  are  regarded  as 


THOUGHTS  ON  MISPLACED  MEN.  39 

little  better  than  fools  by  the  people  among  whom  they 
live;  more  especially  if  they  live  in  remote  places  in 
the  country,  or  in  little  country  towns.  Some  day,  the 
Swans  acknowledge  the  Ugly  Duck  for  their  kinsman : 
and  then  all  the  quacking  tribe  around  him  recognize 
him  as  a  Swan.  Possibly,  indeed,  even  then,  some  of 
the  neighboring  ducks  who  knew  him  all  his  life,  and 
accordingly  held  him  cheap  till  the  world  fixed  his 
mark,  will  still  insist  that  he  is  no  more  than  an  ex 
tremely  Ugly  Duck,  whom  people?  (mainly  out  of  spite 
against  the  ducks  who  were  his  early  acquaintances) 
persist  in  absurdly  calling  a  Swan.  I  have  beheld  a 
Duck  absolutely  foam  at  the  mouth,  when  I  said  some 
thing  implying  that  another  bird  (whose  name  you 
would  know  if  I  mentioned  it)  was  a  Swan.  For  the 
Duck,  at  college,  had  been  a  contemporary  of  the 
Swan  :  he  had  even  played  at  marbles  with  the  Swan, 
in  boyhood ;  and  so,  though  the  Swan  was  quite  fixed 
as  being  a  Swan,  the  Duck  never  could  bear  to  recog 
nize  him  as  such.  On  the  contrary,  he  held  him  as  an 
overrated,  impudent,  purse-proud,  conceited,  disagree 
able,  and  hideously  Ugly  Duck.  I  remember,  too,  a 
very  venomous  and  malicious  old  Duck,  who  never  had 
done  anything  but  quack  (in  an  envious  and  unchari 
table  way  too)  through  all  the  years  which  made  him 
very  old  and  exceedingly  tough,  giving  an  account  of 
the  extravagances  and  bombastic  flights  of  a  young 
Swan.  The  Duck  vilely  exaggerated  the  sayings  of 
that  youthful  Swan.  He  put  into  the  Swan's  mouth 
words  which  the  Swan  had  never  uttered,  and  ascribed 
to  the  Swan  sentiments  (of  a  heretical  character)  which 
he  very  well  knew  the  Swan  abhorred.  But  even 


40  CONCEKNING  UGLY  DUCKS: 

upon  the  Duck's  own  showing,  there  was  the  promise 
of  something  fine  about  the  injudicious  and  warm 
hearted  young  Swan ;  and  a  little  candor  and  a  little 
honesty  might  have  acknowledged  this.  And  it  ap 
peared  to  me  a  poor  sight  to  behold  the  ancient  Duck, 
with  all  his  feathers  turned  the  wrong  way  with  spite, 
standing  beside  a  dirty  puddle,  and  stretching  his  neck, 
and  gobbling  and  quacking  out  his  impotent  malice,  as 
the  beautiful  Swan  sailed  gracefully  overhead,  perfectly 
unaware  of  the  malignity  he  was  exciting  in  the  muscle 
which  served  the  Duck  for  a  heart. 

It  makes  me  ferocious,  I  confess  it,  to  hear  a  Duck,  or 
a  company  of  Ducks,  abusing  and  vilifying  a  Swan ; 
and  a  good  many  Ducks  have  a  tendency  so  to  do.  If 
you  ask  one  of  very  many  Ducks,  "  What  kind  of  a  bird 
is  A?"  (A  being  a  Swan),  the  answer  will  be,  "Oh,  a 
very  Ugly  Duck  !  "  If  the  present  writer  had  the  faint 
est  pretension  to  be  esteemed  a  Swan,  he  would  not  say 
this.  But  he  knows  very  well  indeed  that  he  can  pre 
tend  to  no  more  than  to  plod  humbly  and  laboriously 
along  upon  the  earth,  while  other  creatures  sail  through 
the  empyrean.  He  has  seen,  with  wonder,  several  ill- 
natured  attacks  upon  himself  in  print,  the  gravamen  of 
the  charge  against  him  being  that  he  does  not  and  can 
not  write  like  A,  B,  and  C,  who  are  great  geniuses. 
Pray,  Mr.  Snarling,  did  he  ever  pretend  to  write  like 
A,  B,  and  C  ?  No ;  he  pretends  to  nothing  more  than 
to  produce  a  homely  material  (with  something  real 
about  it)  that  may  suit  homely  folk.  And  so  long  as  a 
great  number  of  people  are  content  to  read  what  he  is 
able  to  write,  you  may  rely  upon  it  he  will  go  on  writ 
ing.  As  for  you,  Mr.  Snarling,  of  course  you  can  write 


THOUGHTS  ON  MISPLACED  MEN.  41 

like  A,  B,  and  C.  And  in  that  case,  your  obvious  course 
is  to  proceed  to  do  so.  And  when  you  do  so,  you  may 
be  sure  of  this ;  that  the  present  writer  will  never  twist 
nor  misrepresent  your  words,  nor  tell  lies  to  your  pre 
judice. 

It  is  a  curious  and  interesting  spectacle  to  witness 
two  Ducks  discussing  the  merits  of  a  Swan.  I  have 
known  a  Duck  attack  a  Swan  in  print.  The  Swan  was 
an  author.  The  Duck  attacked  the  Swan  on  the  ground 
that  his  style  wanted  elegance.  And  I  assure  you  the 
attack,  for  want  of  elegance  of  style,  was  made  in  lan 
guage  not  decently  grammatical.  You  may  have  heard 
a  Duck  attack  a  Swan  in  conversation.  The  Swan  was 
a  pretty  girl.  The  charge  was  that  the  Swan's  taste  in 
dress  was  bad.  You  looked  at  the  Duck,  and  were 
aware  that  the  Duck's  taste  was  execrable.  Would 
that  we  could  "  see  ourselves  as  others  see  us  !  "  Then 
you  would  no  longer  see  such  sights  as  this,  which  we 
may  have  witnessed  in  our  youth.  Two  Ducks  viciously 
abusing  a  Swan,  flying  by ;  and  pointing  out  that  the 
Swan  had  lost  an  eye,  also  a  foot ;  and  with  wearisome 
iteration  dwelling  on  those  enormities.  And  when  you 
looked  carefully  at  the  spiteful  creatures,  wagging  their 
heads  together,  hissing  and  quacking,  you  were  aware 
that  (strange  to  say)  each  of  them  had  but  one  foot  and 
one  eye,  and  that,  in  short,  in  every  respect  in  which 
the  Swan  was  bad,  the  Ducks  were  about  fifty  times 
worse.  Thus  you  may  have  known  a  very  small  and 
shabby  Duck,  who  scoffed  at  a  noble  Swan,  because  (as 
he  said)  the  Swan  had  no  logic.  Yet  whenever  that 
Duck  himself  attempted  to  argue  any  question,  he  had 
but  one  course,  which  was  scandalously  to  misrepresent 


42  CONCERNING  UGLY  DUCKS: 

and  distort  something  said  by  the  man  maintaining  the 
other  opinion,  and  then  to  try  to  raise  against  that  man 
a  howl  of  heresy.  Not  indeed  that  that  man,  or  any 
one  of  his  friends,  cared  a  brass  farthing  for  what  the 
shabby  little  Duck  thought  or  said  of  him.  Yet  the 
Duck  showed  all  the  will  to  be  a  viper,  though  nature 
had  constrained  him  to  abide  a  Duck.  And  this  was 
the  Duck's  peculiar  logic. 

At  this  point  the  reader  may  pause,  and  ponder  what 
has  been  said.  If  exhausted  by  the  mental  effort  of 
attention,  he  may  take  a  glass  of  wine.  And  then  he 
is  requested  to  observe,  that  the  writer  considers  him 
self  to  have  made  but  one  step  in  advance  since  he 
finished  the  legend  of  the  Ugly  Duck,  with  which  the 
present  work  commenced.  That  step  in  advance  was 
to  the  principle : 

THAT  SOME  MEN  ARE  HELD  IN  LITTLE  ESTIMA 
TION  BECAUSE  THEY  ARE  TOO  GOOD  FOR  THE  PEOPLE 

AMONG  WHOM  THEY  LIVE.     These  are  my  MISPLACED 

MEN. 

Of  course,  not  all  misplaced  men  are  what  I  under 
stand  by  Ugly  Ducks.  For  there  are  men  who  are 
misplaced  by  being  put  in  places  a  great  deal  too  good 
for  them.  You  may  have  known  individuals  who  could 
not  open  their  mouths  but  you  heard  the  unmistakable 
quack-quack,  who  yet  gave  themselves  all  the  airs  of 
Swans.  And  probably  a  good  many  people  honestly 
took  them  for  Swans,  and  other  people,  prudent,  safe, 
and  somewhat  sneaky  people,  pretended  that  they  took 
them  for  Swans,  while  in  fact  they  did  not.  And  when 
perspicacious  persons  privately  whispered  to  one  anoth 
er,  "  That  fellow  Stuckup  is  only  a  duck,"  it  was  be- 


THOUGHTS  ON  MISPLACED  MEN.  43 

cause  in  fact  he  was  no  more.  Yet  Stuckup  did  not 
think  himself  so.  I  have  not  seen  many  remarkable 
human  beings,  but  I  have  studied  a  few  with  attention ; 
and  I  can  say,  with  sincerity,  that  the  peculiar  animal 
known  as  the  Beggar  on  Horseback  is  by  far  the  great 
est  and  most  important  human  being  I  have  ever  known. 
Probably,  my  reader,  you  still  hold  your  breath  with 
awe,  as  you  remember  your  first  admission  to  the  pres 
ence  of  a  person  whom  you  saw  to  be  on  horseback,  but 
did  not  know  to  be  a  beggar  who  had  attained  that  emi 
nence.  You  afterwards  learned  the  fact ;  and  then  you 
wondered  you  did  not  see  it  sooner.  For  now  the  beg 
gar's  dignity  appeared  to  you  to  bear  the  like  relation 
to  that  of  the  true  man  in  such  a  place,  that  the  strut 
of  a  king,  with  a  tinsel  crown,  in  a  booth  at  a  fair,  bears 
to  the  quiet,  assured  air  of  Queen  Victoria,  walking  into 
the  House  of  Lords  to  open  Parliament. 

It  is  an  unspeakable  blessing  for  a  man,  that  he  should 
be  put  down  among  people  who  can  understand  him. 
For  no  matter  whether  a  man  is  thought  a  fool  by  his 
neighbors  because  he  is  too  good  for  them,  or  because  he 
is  realy  a  fool,  the  depressing  effect  upon  his  own  mind  is 
the  same ;  unless  indeed  he  have  the  confidence  which 
we  might  suppose  would  have  gone  with  the  head  and 
heart  of  Shakespeare,  if  Shakespeare  appreciated  him 
self  justly.  Very  likely  he  did  not.  John  Foster,  great 
man  as  he  was,  could  not  have  liked  to  see  the  little 
meeting-houses  at  which  he  held  forth  gradually  getting 
empty,  as  the  people  of  the  congregation  went  off  to 
some  fluent  blockhead  with  powerful  lungs  and  a  vacuous 
head.  For  many  a  day  Archbishop  Whately  of  Dublin 
was  a  misplaced  man  ;  feared  and  suspected  just  because 


44  CONCERNING  UGLY  DUCKS: 

that  clear  head  and  noble  heart  were  so  high  above  the 
sympathy  or  even  the  comprehension  of  many  of  those 
over  \yhom  he  was  set.  A  bitter  little  sectary  would 
have  been  at  first  an  infinitely  more  popular  prelate ; 
and  the  writer  cannot  refrain  from  saying  with  what 
delight,  but  a  few  months  before  that  great  man  died,  he 
saw,  by  the  enthusiastic  reception  which  the  archbishop 
met,  rising  to  make  a  short  speech  at  a  public  meeting 
in  Dublin  of  three  thousand  people,  that  justice  was 
done  him  at  last.  He  had  found  the  place  which  was 
his  due.  They  knew  the  noble  Swan  they  had  got,  and 
knew  that  the  honor  he  derived  from  the  archiepiscopal 
throne  was  as  a  sand-grain  when  compared  with  the 
honor  which  he  reflected  on  it.  Yet  he  found  the  time 
hard  to  bear,  when  he  was  undervalued  because  he  was 
too  good  ;  when  men  vilified  him  because  they  could  not 
understand  him.  "I  have  tried  to  look  as  if  I  did  not  feel 
it,"  he  said  ;  "  but  it  has  shortened  my  life."  Whereas 
our  friend  Carper,  who  for  ten  years  past  has  held  an 
eminent  place  for  which  he  is  about  as  fit  as  a  cow,  and 
which  he  has  made  ridiculous  through  his  incompetence, 
—  the  wrong  man  in  the  wrong  place,  if  such  a  thing 
ever  was,  —  is  entirely  pleased  with  himself,  and  will 
never  have  his  life  shortened  by  any  consideration  of  his 
outrageous  incapacity.  There  were  years  of  Arnold's 
life  at  Rugby  during  which  he  was  an  unappreciated 
man,  just  because  he  rose  so  high  above  the  ordinary 
standard.  If  the  sun  were  something  new,  and  if  you 
showed  it  for  the  first  time  to  a  company  of  blear-eyed 
men,  they  would  doubtless  say  it  was  a  most  disagreeable 
object.  And  if  there  were  no  people  of  thoughtful  hearts 
and  of  refined  culture  in  the  world,  the  author  of  In 


THOUGHTS   ON  MISPLACED   MEN.  45 

Memoriatn  would  no  doubt  pass  among  mankind  for  a 
fool.  There  are  people  who,  through  a  large  part  of 
their  life,  are  above  the  high- water-mark  of  popular 
appreciation.  Wordsworth  was  so.  He  needed  "  an 
audience  fit";  and  it  for  many  a  day  was  "few."  The 
popular  taste  had  to  be  educated  into  caring  for  him.  It 
was  as  if  you  had  commanded  a  band  of  children  to 
drink  bitter  ale  and  to  like  it.  Even  Jeffrey  could 
write,  "This  will  never  do!"  And  you  miss  peo 
ple  as  completely  by  shooting  over  their  heads  as  by 
hitting  the  ground  a  dozen  yards  on  this  side  of 
them.  A  donkey,  in  all  honesty,  prefers  thistles  to 
pine-apple.  Yet  the  poor  pine-apple  is  ready  to  feel 
aggrieved. 

This  misjudging  of  people,  because  they  rise  above  the 
sphere  of  your  judgment,  begins  early  and  lasts  late.  I 
have  known  a  clever  boy,  under  the  authority  of  a 
tyrannical  and  uncultivated  governor,  who  was  savagely 
bullied  and  ignominiously  ordered  out  of  the  room,  be 
cause  he  declared  that  he  admired  the  Hartleap  Well. 
His  governor  declared  that  he  was  a  fool,  a  false  pre 
tender,  a  villain.  His  governor  sketched  his  future 
career  by  declaring  that  he  would  be  hanged  in  this 
world,  and  sent  to  perdition  in  the  next.  All  this  was 
because  he  possessed  faculties  which  his  uncultivated 
tyrant  did  not  possess.  It  was  as  if  a  stone-deaf  man 
should  torture  a  lover  of  music  because  he  ventured  to 
maintain  that  there  is  such  a  tiling  as  sound.  It  was  as 
if  a  man  whose  musical  taste  was  educated  up  to  the 
point  of  admiring  the  Ratcatcher's  Daughter  should 
vilipend  and  suspend  by  hemp  a  human  being  who 
should  declare  there  was  something  beyond  that  in 


46  CONCERNING  UGLY  DUCKS: 

Beethoven  and  Mendelssohn.  And  I  believe  that  very 
often  thoughtful  little  children  are  subjected  to  the 
great  trial  of  being  brought  up  in  a  house  where  they 
are  utterly  misunderstood  by  guardians  and  even  by 
parents  quite  unequal  to  understanding  them ;  and  this 
has  a  very  souring  effect  on  the  little  heart.  There  are 
boys  and  girls,  living  under  their  fathers'  roof,  who  in 
their  deepest  thoughts  are  as  thoroughly  alone  as  if  they 
dwelt  at  Tadmor  in  the  Wilderness.  There  are  children 
who  would  sooner  go  and  tell  their  donkey  what  was 
most  in  their  mind  than  they  would  tell  it  to  their 
father  or  their  mother.  In  some  cases,  the  lack  of 
power  to  understand  or  appreciate  becomes  still  more 
marked  as  childhood  advances  to  maturity.  You  may 
have  known  a  man  recognized  by  the  world  as  a  very 
wise  man  for  expressing  to  the  world  the  self-same 
views  and  opinions  whose  expression  had  caused  him  to 
be  adjudged  a  fool  at  home.  "  Do  you  know,  Charlotte 
has  written  a  book ;  and  it 's  better  than  likely " :  was  all 
the  father  of  its  author  had  to  say  about  Jane  Eyre. 
What  a  picture  of  a  searing,  blighting  home  atmosphere ! 
You  cannot  read  the  story  without  thinking  of  ever 
greens  crisping  up  under  a  withering  east  wind  of  three 
weeks'  duration.  And  I  could  point  to  a  country  in 
Africa  where  men,  who  would  be  recognized  as  great 
men  elsewhere,  are  thought  very  little  of,  because  there 
is  hardly  anybody  who  can  appreciate  them  and  their 
attainments.  I  have  known  there  an  accomplished 
scholar,  who  in  the  neighboring  kingdom  of  Biafra  would 
be  made  a  clefrag  (corresponding  to  our  bishop),  who, 
living  where  he  does,  when  spoken  of  at  all,  is  usually 
spoken  of  contemptuously  as  A  DOMINIE  ;  corresponding 


THOUGHTS  ON  MISPLACED  MEN.  47 

to  our  schoolmaster  or  college  tutor,  but  the  undignified 
way  of  stating  the  fact.  Such  a  man  is  a  great  Greek 
scholar ;  but  if  he  dwell  among  Africans,  who  know 
nothing  earthly  about  Greek,  and  who  care  even  less  for 
it,  what  does  it  profit  him?  Alas,  for  that  misplaced 
man  !  Thought  an  Ugly  Duck  because  he  lives  at 
Heliopolis ;  while  four  hundred  miles  off,  in  the  great 
University  of  Biafra,  he  would  be  hailed  as  a  noble 
Swan  by  kindred  Swans  ! 

Almost  the  only  order  of  educated  men  who  have  it 
not  in  their  power  to  live  among  educated  folk  are  the 
clergy.  Almost  all  other  cultivated  men  may  choose 
for  their  daily  companions  people  like  themselves.  But 
in  the  Church,  you  have  doubtless  known  innumerable 
instances  in  which  men  of  very  high  culture  were  set 
down  in  remote  rural  districts,  where  there  was  not  a 
soul  with  whom  they  had  a  thought  in  common  within 
a  dozen  miles.  It  is  all  right,  of  course,  in  that  broader 
sense  in  which  everything  is  so ;  and  doubtless  the 
cure  of  souls,  however  rude  and  ignorant,  is  a  work 
worthy  of  the  best  human  heart  and  head  that  God  ever 
made.  Still  it  is  sad  to  see  a  razor  somewhat  in 
efficiently  cutting  a  block,  for  which  a  great  axe  with 
a  notched  edge  is  the  right  thing.  It  is  sad  to  see  a 
cultivated,  sensitive  man  in  the  kind  of  parish  where 
I  have  several  times  seen  such.  You  may  be  able  to 
think  of  one,  an  elegant  scholar,  a  profound  theologian, 
a  man  of  most  refined  taste,  taken  unhappily  from  the 
common-room  of  a  college,  and  set  down  in  a  cold 
upland  district,  where  there  were  no  trees  and  where 
the  wind  almost  invariably  blew  from  the  east ;  among 
people  with  high  cheek-bones  and  dried-up  complexions, 


48  CONCERNING   UGLY  DUCKS: 

of  radical  politics  and  dissenting  tendencies,  dense  in 
ignorance  and  stupidity,  and  impregnable  in  self-con 
fidence  and  self-conceit,  and  just  as  capable  of  appre 
ciating  their  clergyman's  graceful  genius  as  an  equal 
number  of  codfish  would  be.  And  what  was  a  yet 
more  melancholy  sight  than  even  the  sight  of  the  first 
inconsistency  between  the  man  and  his  place  was  the 
sight  of  the  way  in  which  the  man,  year  by  year,  de 
generated  till  he  grew  just  the  man  for  the  place,  and 
only  a  middling  man  for  it.  Yes,  it  was  miserable  to 
see  how  the  Swan  gradually  degenerated  into  an  Ugly 
Duck  ;  how  his  views  got  morbid,  and  his  temper 
ungenial;  how  his  accomplishments  rusted,  and  his 
conversational  powers  died  through  utter  lack  of  exer 
cise  ;  till  after  a  good  many  years  you  beheld  him  a 
soured,  wrong-headed,  cantankerous,  petty,  disappointed 
man.  For  luck  was  against  him ;  and  he  had  no  prospect 
but  that  of  remaining  in  the  bleak  upland  parish,  swept 
by  the  east  wind,  as  long  as  he  might  live.  And  after  a 
little  while,  he  ceased  entirely  to  go  back  to  the  university 
where  he  would  have  found  fit  associates  ;  and  he  grew 
so  disagreeable  that  his  old  friends  did  not  care  to  visit 
him,  and  listen  to  his  moaning.  Now,  you  cannot  long 
keep  much  above  what  you  are  rated  at.  At  least,  you 
must  have  an  iron  constitution  of  mind  if  you  do.  I> 
daresay  sometimes  in  old  days  an  honorable  and  goodf 
man  was  constrained  by  circumstances  to  become  a 
publican ;  I  mean,  of  course,  a  Jewish  publican.  He 
meant  to  be  honest  and  kind,  even  in  that  unpopular 
sphere  of  life.  But  when  all  men  shied  him  ;  when  his 
old  friends  cut  him ;  when  he  was  made  to  feel,  daily, 
that  in  the  common  estimation  publicans  and  sinners 


THOUGHTS   ON  MISPLACED  MEN.  49 

ranked  together ;  I  have  no  doubt  earthly  but  he  would 
sink  to  the  average  of  his  class.  Or,  as  the  sweetest 
wine  becomes  the  sourest  vinegar,  he  might  not  im 
possibly  prove  a  sinner  above  all  the  other  publicans 
of  the  district. 

But  not  merely  do  ignorant  and  vulgar  persons  fail 
to  appreciate  at  his  true  value  a  cultivated  man :  more 
than  this,  the  fact  of  his  cultivation  may  positively  go 
to  make  vulgar  and  ignorant  persons  dislike  and  under 
rate  him.  My  friend  Brown  is  a  clergyman  of  the 
Scotch  Church,  and  a  man  who  has  seen  a  little  of  the 
world.  Like  most  educated  Scotchmen  now-a-days,  he 
speaks  the  English  language,  if  not  with  an  English 
accent,  at  least  with  an  accent  which  is  not  disagreeably 
Scotch.  He  does  not  call  a  boat  a  bott ;  nor  a  horse, 
a  hoarrse ;  nor  philosophy,  philozzophy  ;  nor  a  road,  a 
rodd.  He  does  not  pronounce  the  word  is  as  if  it  were 
spelt  eez,  nor  talk  of  a  lad  of  speerit.  Still  less  does  he 
talk  of  salvahtion,  justificahtion,  sanctificahtion,  and  the 
like.  He  does  not  begin  his  church  service  by  giving 
out  either  a  sawm  or  a  sarnm  ;  in  which  two  disgusting 
forms  I  have  sometimes  known  the  word  psalm  dis 
guised.  Brown  told  me  that  once  on  a  time  he  preached 
in  the  church  of  a  remote  country  parish,  where  parson 
and  people  were  equally  uncivilized.  And  after  service 
the  minister  confided  to  him  that  he  did  not  think  the 
congregation  could  have  liked  his  sermon.  "  Ye  see," 
said  the  minister,  "  thawt's  no  the  style  o'  langidge 
they  're  used  wi' ! "  My  friend  replied,  not  without 
asperity,  that  he  trusted  it  was  not.  But  I  could  see, 
when  he  told  me  the  story,  that  he  did  not  quite  like  to 
be  an  Ugly  Duck ;  that  it  irked  him  to  think  that,  in 
3  D 


50  CONCERNING  UGLY  DUCKS: 

fact,  some  vulgar  boor  with  a  different  style  o'  langidge 
would  have  been  much  more  acceptable  to  the  people 
of  Muffburgh.  I  am  very  happy  to  believe  that  such 
parishes  as  Muffburgh  are  becoming  few ;  and  that  a 
scholar  and  a  gentleman  will  rarely  indeed  find  that  he 
had  better,  for  immediate  popularity,  have  been  a  clod 
hopper  and  an  ignoramus.  You  have  heard,  no  doubt, 
how  a  dissenting  preacher  in  England  demolished  the 
parish  clergyman  in  a  discourse  against  worldly  learn 
ing.  The  clergyman,  newly  come,  was  an  eminent 
scholar.  "  Do  ye  think  Powle  knew  Greek  ?  "  said  his 
opponent,  perspiring  all  over.  And  the  people  saw  how 
useless,  and  indeed  prejudicial,  was  the  knowledge  of 
that  heathen  tongue. 

And  this  reminds  me  that  it  will  certainly  make  a 
man  an  Ugly  Duck  to  be,  in  knowledge  or  learning,  in 
advance  of  the  people  among  whom  he  lives.  A  very 
wise  man,  if  he  lives  among  people  who  are  all  fools, 
may  find  it  expedient,  like  Brutus,  to  pass  for  a  fool  too. 
And  if  he  knows  two  things  or  three  which  they  don't 
know,  he  had  better  keep  his  information  to  himself. 
Even  the  possession  of  a  single  exclusive  piece  of  knowl 
edge  may  be  a  dangerous  thing.  Long  ago,  in  an  an 
cient  university  near  the  source  of  the  Nile,  the  profes 
sors  of  divinity  regarded  not  the  quantity  of  Greek  or 
Latin  words.  The  length  of  the  vowels  they  decided  in 
each  case  according  to  the  idea  of  the  moment.  And 
their  pronunciation  of  Scripture  proper  names,  if  it  went 
upon  any  principle  at  all,  went  on  a  wrong  one.  A 
youthful  student,  named  McLamroch,  was  reading  an 
essay  in  the  class  of  one  of  these  respectable  but  ante 
diluvian  professors  ;  and  coming  to  the  word  Thessa- 


THOUGHTS  ON  MISPLACED  MEN.  51 

lonica,  he  pronounced  it,  as  all  mortals  do,  with  the 
accent  on  the  last  syllable  but  one,  and  giving  the  vowel 
as  long.  "  Say  Thessaloanica,"  said  the  venerable  pro 
fessor,  with  emphasis.  "  I  think,  doctissime  professor" 
(for  all  professors  in  that  university  were  most  learned 
by  courtesy,)  "  that  Thessalonica  is  the  right  way,"  re 
plied  poor  McLamroch.  "  I  tell  you  it  is  wrong,"  shrilly 
shouted  the  good  professor :  "  say  Thessaloanica !  and 
let  me  tell  you,  Mr.  McLamroch,  you  are  most  aboami- 
nably  affectit ! "  So  poor  McLamroch  was  put  down. 
He  was  an  Ugly  Duck.  And  he  found  by  sad  experi 
ence,  that  it  is  not  safe  to  know  more  than  your  profes 
sor.  And  I  verily  believe,  that  the  solitary  thing  that 
McLamroch  knew,  and  his  professor  did  not  know,  was 
the  way  to  pronounce  Thessalonica.  I  have  heard,  in 
deed,  of  a  theological  professor  of  that  ancient  day,  who 
bitterly  lamented  the  introduction  of  new  fashions  of 
pronouncing  scriptural  proper  names.  However,  he 
said,  he  could  stand  all  the  rest ;  but  there  were  two 
renderings  he  would  never  give  up  but  with  life.  These 
were  Kappfer-nawm,  by  which  he  meant  Capernaum ; 
and  Levvy-awthan,  by  which  he  meant  Leviathan.  And 
if  you,  my  learned  friend,  had  been  a  student  under  that 
good  man,  and  had  pronounced  these  words  as  scholars 
and  all  others  do,  you  would  have  found  yourself  no 
better  than  an  Ugly  Duck,  and  a  fearfully  misplaced 
man. 

A  torrent  of  wut,  sarcasm  at  new  lights,  and  indigna 
tion  at  people  who  were  not  content  to  pronounce  words 
(wrong)  like  their  fathers  before  them,  would  have  made 
you  sink  through  the  floor. 

To  be  in  advance  of  your  fellow-mortals  in  taste,  too, 


52  CONCERNING   UGLY  DUCKS: 

is  as  dangerous  as  to  be  in  advance  of  them  in  the  pro 
nunciation  of  Thessalonica.  When  Mr.  Jones  built  his 
beautiful  Gothic  house  in  a  district  where  all  other 
houses  belonged  to  no  architectural  school  at  all,  all  his 
neighbors  laughed  at  him.  A  genial  friend,  in  a  letter 
in  a  newspaper,  spoke  of  his  peculiar  taste,  and  called 
him  the  preposterous  Jones,  And  it  was  a  current  joke 
in  the  neighborhood,  when  you  met  a  friend,  to  say, 
"  Have  you  seen  Jones's  house  ?  "  You  then  held  up 
both  hands,  or  exclaimed,  "  Well,  I  never ! "  Then 
your  friend  burst  into  a  loud  roar  of  laughter.  In  a 
severer  mood,  you  would  say,  "  That  fellow  !  Can't  he 
build  like  his  fathers  before  him  ?  Indeed  he  never 
had  a  grandfather.  I  remember  how  he  was  brought  up 
by  his  aunt,  that  kept  a  cat's-meat  shop  in  Muffburgh," 
and  the  like.  All  this  evil  came  upon  Jones,  because  he 
was  a  little  in  advance  of  his  neighbors  in  taste.  For 
in  ten  years,  hardly  a  house  round  but  had  some  steep 
gables,  several  bay-windows,  and  a  little  stained  glass. 
Their  owners  esteemed  them  Gothic ;  and  in  one  sense, 
undoubtedly,  some  of  them  were  Gothic  enough.  In 
Scotland  now  people  build  handsome  churches,  and  pay 
all  due  respect  to  ecclesiastical  propriety.  But  it  is  not 
very  long  since  a  parish  clergyman  proposed  to  the  au 
thorities  that  a  proper  font  should  be  provided  for  bap 
tisms,  because  the  only  vessel  heretofore  used  for  that 
purpose  was  a  crockery  basin,  used  for  washing  hands ; 
and  one  of  the  authorities  exclaimed  indignantly,  "  We 
are  not  going  to  have  any  gewgaws  in  our  church  "  :  by 
gewgaws  meaning  a  decorous  font.  What  could  be  done 
with  such  a  man  ?  Violently  to  knock  his  head  against 
a  wall  would  have  been  wrong ;  for  no  man  should  be 


THOUGHTS  ON  MISPLACED  MEN.  53 

visited  with  temporal  penalties  on  account  of  his  honest 
opinions.  Yet  any  less  decided  treatment  would  have 
been  of  no  avail. 

We  ought  all  to  be  very  thankful,  if  we  are  in  our 
right  place ;  if  we  are  set  among  people  whom  we  suit, 
and  who  suit  us;  and  among  whom  we  need  neither  to 
practise  a  dishonest  concealment  of  our  views,  nor  to 
stand  in  the  painful  position  of  Ugly  Ducks  and  Mis 
placed  Men.  Yes,  a  man  may  well  be  glad,  if  he  is  the 
square  man  in  the  square  hole.  For  he  might  have  been 
a  round  man  in  a  square  hole ;  and  then  he  would  have 
been  unhappy  in  the  hole,  und  the  hole  would  have 
hated  him.  I  know  a  place  where  a  man  who  should 
say  that  he  thought  Catholic  Emancipation  common 
justice  and  common  sense  would  be  hooted  down  even 
yet ;  would  be  told  he  was  a  villain,  blinded  by  Satan. 
There  is  a  locality,  where  morality  indeed  is  very  low, 
but  where  a  valued  friend  of  mine  was  held  up  to  repro 
bation  as  a  dangerous  and  insidious  man,  because  he 
declared  in  print  that  he  did  not  think  it  sinful  to  take 
a  quiet  walk  on  Sunday.  In  that  locality,  one  birth  in 
every  three  is  illegitimate;  but  it  was  pleasant  and 
easy,  by  abuse  of  the  rector  of  a  London  parish,  and 
by  abuse  of  others  like  him,  to  compound  for  the  neglect 
of  the  duty  of  trying  to  break  Hodge  and  Bill,  Kate 
and  Sally,  of  their  evil  ways.  I  know  a  place  where 
you  may  find  an  intelligent  man,  out  of  a  lunatic  asylum 
too,  who  will  tell  you  that  to  have  an  organ  in  church  is 
to  set  up  images  and  go  back  to  Judaism.  I  have  lately 
heard  it  seriously  maintained  that  to  make  a  decorous 
pause  for  a  minute  after  service  in  church  is  over,  and 


54  CONCERNING  UGLY  DUCKS: 

pray  for  God's  blessing  on  the  worship  in  which  you 
have  joined,  is  "  contrary  to  reason  and  to  Scripture ! " 
I  know  places  where  any  one  of  the  plainest  canons  of 
taste,  being  expressed  by  a  man,  would  be  taken  as 
stamping  him  a  fool.  Now  what  would  you  do,  my 
friend,  if  you  found  yourself  set  down  among  people 
with  whom  you  were  utterly  out  of  sympathy ;  whose 
first  principles  appeared  to  you  the  prejudices  of  prag 
matic  blockheads,  and  to  whom  your  first  principles  ap 
peared  those  of  a  silly  and  Ugly  Duck?  One  would 
say,  "  If  you  don 't  want  to  dwarf  and  distort  your  whole 
moral  nature,  get  out  of  that  situation."  But  then  some 
poor  fellows  cannot.  And  then  they  must  either  take 
rank  as  Misplaced  Men,  or  go  through  life  hypocriti 
cally  pretending  to  share  views  which  they  despise. 
The  latter  alternative  is  inadmissible  in  any  circum 
stances.  Be  honest,  whatever  you  do.  Take  your 
place  boldly  as  an  Ugly  Duck,  if  God  has  appointed 
that  to  be  your  portion  in  this  life.  Doubtless,  it  will 
be  a  great  trial.  But  you  and  I,  friendly  reader,  set  by 
Providence  among  people  who  understand  us  and  whom 
we  understand;  among  whom  we  may  talk  out  our  hon 
est  heart,  and  (let  us  hope)  do  so ;  in  talking  to  whom 
we  don  't  need  to  be  on  our  guard,  and  every  now  and 
then  to  pull  up,  thinking  to  ourselves,  "  Now  this  sneak 
ing  fellow  is  lying  on  the  catch  for  my  saying  some 
thing  he  may  go  and  repeat  to  my  prejudice  behind  my 
back  " ;  how  thankful  we  should  be  !  I  declare,  looking 
back  on  days  that  have  been,  in  this  very  country,  I 
cannot  understand  how  manly,  enlightened,  and  honest 
men  lived  then  at  all !  You  must  either  have  been  a 
savage  bigot,  or.  a  wretched  sneak,  or  a  martyr.  The 


THOUGHTS  ON  MISPLACED  MEN.  55 

alternative  is  an  awful  one ;  but  let  us  trust,  my  friend, 
that  if  you  and  I  had  lived  then,  we  should,  by  God's 
grace,  have  been  equal  to  it.  Yes,  I  humbly  trust  that 
if  we  had  lived  then,  we  should  either  have  been 
burned,  hanged,  or  shot.  For  the  days  have  been  in 
which  that  must  have  been  the  portion  of  an  honest 
man,  who  thought  for  himself,  and  who  would  be  dra 
gooned  by  neither  pope,  prelate,  nor  presbyter. 

But  now,  having  written  myself  into  a  heat  of  indig 
nation,  I  think  it  inexpedient  to  write  more.  For  it 
appears  to  me  that  to  write  or  to  read  an  essay  like  this 
ought  always  to  be  a  relief  and  recreation.  And  those 
grave  matters,  which  stir  the  heart  too  deeply,  and  tin 
gle  painfully  through  the  nervous  system,  are  best 
treated  at  other  times,  in  other  ways.  Many  men  find 
it  advisable  to  keep  to  themselves  the  subjects  on  which 
they  feel  most  keenly.  As  for  me,  I  dare  not  allow 
myself  to  think  of  certain  evils  of  whose  existence  I 
know.  Sometimes  they  drive  one  to  some  quiet  spot, 
where  you  can  walk  up  and  down  a  little  path  with 
grass  and  evergreens  on  either  hand,  and  try  to  forget 
the  sin  and  misery  you  cannot  mend :  looking  at  the 
dappled  shades  of  color  on  the  grass ;  taking  hold  of  a 
little  spray  of  holly,  and  poring  upon  its  leaves ;  stop 
ping  beside  a  great  fir-tree,  and  diligently  perusing  the 
wrinkles  of  its  bark. 

So  we  shut  up.  So  we  cave  in.  O  the  beauty  of 
these  simple  phrases,  so  purely  classic ! 


CHAPTER    IV. 


OF  THE   SUDDEN   SWEETENING  OF  CERTAIN 
GRAPES. 


ANY  years  since,  on  a  sunshiny  autumn  day, 
a  gentleman  named  Mr.  Charles  James  Fox, 
a  lawyer  of  eminence,  was  walking  with  his 
friend  Mr.  Mantrap  through  a  vineyard  near 
Melipotamus.  A  vineyard  in  that  region  of  the  earth  is 
not  the  shabby  field  of  what  look  like  stunted  goose 
berry  bushes  which  you  may  see  on  the  Rhine.  For 
trellised  on  high,  from  tree  to  tree,  there  hung  the  ripe 
clusters,  rich  and  red.  One  cluster,  of  especial  size  and 
beauty,  attracted  the  attention  of  Mr.  Fox.  He  had  in 
his  hand  a  walking-stick  (made  of  oak,  varnished  to  a 
yellow  hue),  with  a  hook  at  its  superior  end.  With  this 
implement  he  sought  to  reach  that  cluster  of  grapes, 
with  the  view  of  appropriating  it  to  his  personal  con 
sumption,  possibly  upon  the  spot.  But  after  repeated 
attempts,  he  found  he  could  not  in  any  way  attain  it. 
Upon  this,  Mr.  Fox,  a  man  of  ready  wit  intellectually, 
but  morally  no  more  than  an  average  human  being, 
turned  off  the  little  disappointment  by  saying  to  his 
friend,  "  0,  bother :  I  believe  the  grapes  are  as  sour  as 
the  disposition  of  Mr.  Snarling."  The  friends  prose- 


SUDDEN  SWEETENING  OF  CERTAIN  GRAPES.       57 

cuted  their  walk ;  but  after  they  had  proceeded  a  few 
miles,  it  occurred  to  Mr.  Mantrap  that  Mr.  Fox  had 
depreciated  the  grapes  because  he  could  not  reach  them. 
Mr.  Mantrap  mentioned  the  occurrence  to  various  ac 
quaintances,  and  gradually  it  came  to  be  that,  in  the 
circle  of  Mr.  Fox's  friends,  SOUR  GRAPES  grew  a  pro 
verbial  phrase,  signifying  anything  a  human  being  would 
like  to  get,  and,  failing  to  get,  cried  down. 

These  facts,  now  given  to  the  public  in  an  accurate 
fashion,  were  lately  made  the  subject  of  a  short  narra 
tive  in  a  little  volume  of  moral  stories  published  by  an 
individual  whose  name  I  do  not  mention.  But  by  one 
of  those  misapprehensions  which  naturally  occur  when  a 
story  is  conveyed  by  oral  tradition,  that  gentleman  (of 
whom  I  desire  to  speak  with  the  utmost  respect)  repre 
sented  that  the  person  who  acted  in  the  way  briefly 
described  was  not  Mr.  C.  J.  Fox,  the  eminent  lawyer, 
but  the  well-known  inferior  animal  which  is  termed  a 
fox.  A  moment's  thought  may  show  how  impossible  it 
is  to  receive  such  a  representation.  For  it  is  extremely 
doubtful  whether  a  fox  would  care  to  eat  grapes,  even 
if  he  could  get  a  cluster  of  the  very  finest;  while  the 
notion  that  such  an  animal  could  express  his  ideas  in 
articulate  language  is  one  which  could  not  possibly  be 
received,  unless  by  illiterate  persons,  residing  at  a  great 
distance  from  a  university  town. 

Should  the  reader  have  had  any  difficulty  in  grasping 
the  full  meaning  of  what  has  been  said,  it  is  requested 
that  he  should  pause  at  this  point,  and  read  the  preced 
ing  paragraphs  a  second  or  even  a  third  time  before 
proceeding  further. 

3* 


58  OF  THE  SUDDEN  SWEETENING  OF 

Sometimes,  in  this  world,  people  dishonestly  say  that 
the  grapes  they  have  failed  to  reach  are  sour,  though 
knowing  quite  well  that  the  grapes  are  sweet.  In  this 
case,  these  people  desire  to  conceal  their  own  disappoint 
ment  ;  and  (if  possible)  to  make  the  value  of  the  grapes 
less  to  such  as  may  ultimately  get  them.  Sometimes, 
in  this  world,  when  people  have  done  their  best  to  reach 
the  grapes  and  failed,  they  come  to  honestly  believe  that 
the  grapes  are  sour.  They  do,  in  good  faith,  cease  to 
care  for  them,  and  resign  their  mind  quite  cheerfully  to 
doing  without  them.  But  there  is  no  reckoning  up  the 
odd  ways  in  which  the  machinery  of  thought  and  feel 
ing  within  human  beings  works  ;  and  it  is  the  purpose 
of  the  present  dissertation  to  notice  two  of  these. 

One  is,  that  when  you  get  the  grapes,  and  specially 
if  you  get  them  too  easily,  the  grapes  are  apt,  if  not 
exactly  to  grow  sour,  yet  in  great  measure  to  lose  their 
flavor.  When  you  fairly  get  a  thing,  you  do  not  care 
for  it  so  much.  Many  people  have  lately  been  inter 
ested  and  touched  by  a  truthful  representation  in  the 
pages  of  a  very  graceful,  natural,  and  pure  writer  of 
fiction,  whose  pages  (I  have  learned  with  some  surprise) 
various  worthy  people  think  it  wrong  to  read.  That 
graceful  and  excellent  writer  shows  us  how  a  certain 
young  man  sought  the  love  of  a  certain  young  wo 
man,  and  how  when  that  young  man  (not  a  noble  or 
worthy  man  indeed)  found  the  love  of  that  poor  girl 
given  him  so  fully  and  unreservedly,  he  came  not  to 
care  for  it,  and  to  think  he  might  have  done  better. 
Lead  him  out  and  chastise  him,  my  friend  ;  and  having 
done  so,  look  into  your  own  heart,  and  see  whether 
there  be  anything  like  him.  If  you  be  a  wise  person, 


CERTAIN  GRAPES.  59 

you  may  find  reason  severely  to  flagellate  yourself.  For 
it  is  the  ungrateful  and  unworthy  way  of  average  human 
nature,  to  undervalue  the  blessings  God  gives  us,  if 
they  come  too  cheaply  and  easily.  Even  Bruce,  at  the 
source  of  the  Nile,  thought  to  himself,  "  Is  this  all  ?  " 
and  Gibbon,  looking  out  upon  the  Lake  of  Geneva, 
after  writing  the  last  lines  of  the  Decline  and  Fall, 
tells  us  how  he  thought  and  felt  in  like  manner. 

This,  however,  is  not  my  special  subject.  My  sub 
ject  is  also  connected  with  grapes ;  but  it  is  a  different 
phenomenon  to  which  I  solicit  the  reader's  rapt  and 
delighted  attention.  It  is,  how  suddenly  certain  grapes 
grow  sweet,  when  you  find  you  can  get  them.  You 
had  no  estimate  at  all  of  these  grapes  before,  or  you 
even  thought  them  sour.  But  suddenly  you  find  the 
hook  at  the  end  of  your  walking-stick  can  reach  them, 
suddenly  you  find  you  can  get  them,  and  now  you 
judge  of  them  quite  differently. 

Many  young  women  have  thought,  quite  honestly,  — 
and  perhaps  have  said,  in  the  injudicious  way  in  which 
inexperienced  people  talk,  —  that  they  would  not  marry 
such  and  such  a  man  upon  any  account.  But  some  fine 
afternoon,  the  man  in  question  asked  them ;  and  to  the 
astonishment  of  their  friends  (some  of  whom  would  have 
been  glad  to  do  the  like  themselves),  the  young  ladies 
gladly  accepted  the  human  being,  held  in  such  unfavor 
able  estimation  before.  It  just  made  all  the  difference, 
to  find  that  the  thing  could  be  got.  They  began,  all  at 
once,  to  have  quite  a  different  estimate  of  the  man ;  to 
think  of  him  and  of  his  qualifications  in  quite  a  different 
way.  The  grapes  suddenly  grew  sweet ;  and  instead 
of  being  contumeliously  cast  into  the  ditch,  they  were 
eaten  with  considerable  satisfaction. 


60  OF  THE  SUDDEN  SWEETENING  OF 

Even  so  have  young  clergymen,  fresh  from  the  uni 
versity,  thought  that  they  would  not  on  any  account 
take  such  a  small  living  or  such  a  shabby  church ;  and 
in  a  little  while  been  very  thankful  to  get  one  not  so 
good.  And  I  do  not  mean  at  present,  in  the  case  of 
either  the  young  women  or  the  young  preachers,  that 
they  learn  humbler  ideas  of  themselves  as  time  goes  on, 
and  come  to  lowlier  expectations.  That,  of  course,  is 
true ;  but  my  present  assertion  is,  that  in  truth  when 
the  thing  is  put  within  their  reach,  they  come  to  think 
more  highly  of  it ;  they  come  to  see  all  its  advantages 
and  merits,  they  are  not  merely  resigned  to  take  it,  — 
they  are  glad  to  get  it.  Many  a  man  is  now  in  a  place 
in  life,  and  very  content  and  thankful  to  be  there, 
which  he  would  have  repudiated  the  notion  of  his  ac 
cepting  very  shortly  before  he  accepted  it  with  thank 
fulness. 

The  truth  is,  that  if  you  look  carefully,  and  look  for 
some  length  of  time,  into  the  character  of  almost  any 
thing  that  is  not  positively  bad,  you  will  see  a  great  deal 
of  good  about  it.  Friends  in  my  own  calling,  do  you 
not  remember  how,  in  your  student  days,  you  used  to 
look  at  the  shabby  churches  of  our  native  land,  where 
shabby  churches  are  (alas  !)  the  rule,  and  decorous  ones 
the  exception,  and  how  you  wondered  then  how  their 
incumbents  could  stand  them  ?  You  thought  how  much 
it  would  add  to  the  difficulty  of  conducting  public  worship 
worthily  to  be  obliged  to  do  it  under  the  cross-inn uence 
of  a  dirty,  dilapidated  barn,  with  a  mass  of  rickety  pews, 
where  every  arrangement  would  jar  distressingly  upon 
the  whole  nervous  system  of  every  man  with  a  vestige 
of  taste.  You  remember  how  your  heart  sunk  as  you 


CERTAIN  GRAPES.  61 

looked  at  the  vile  wagon-roofed  meeting-house  in  a 
dirty  village  street,  with  no  churchyard  at  all  round  it ; 
or  with  the  mangy,  weedy,  miserable-looking  pound 
which  even  twenty  years  since  was  in  many  places 
thought  good  enough  for  the  solemn  sleep  of  the  re 
deemed  body,  still  united  to  the  Saviour.  And  you 
remember  how  earnestly  you  hoped  that  you  might  be 
favored  so  highly  as  to  attain  a  parish  where  the  church 
was  a  building  at  least  decent,  and  if  possible  fairly 
ecclesiastical.  And  yet  it  is  extremely  likely  you  got  a 
remarkably  shabby  church  for  your  first  one  ;  and  it  is  in 
the  highest  degree  probable  that  in  a  little  you  got  quite 
interested  in  it,  and  thought  it  really  very  good.  Of 
course,  when  my  friend  Mr.  Snarling  reads  this,  he  will 
exclaim,  What,  is  not  the  clergyman's  work  so  weighty 
that  it  ought  not  to  matter  to  him  in  the  least  what  the 
mere  outward  building  is  like  ?  Is  not  the  spiritual 
church  the  great  thing  ?  may  not  God  be  worshipped  in 
the  humblest  place  as  heartily  as  in  the  noblest  ?  And 
I  reply  to  that  candid  person,  who  never  misrepresented 
any  one,  and  who  never  said  a  good  word  of  any  one,  — 
Yes,  my  acquaintance,  I  remember  all  that.  But  still  I 
hold  that  little  vexatious  external  circumstances  have  a 
great  effect  in  producing  a  feeling  of  irritation  the  re 
verse  of  devotional  ;  and  I  believe  that  we  poor  crea 
tures,  with  our  wandering  thoughts  and  our  cold  hearts, 
are  much  more  likely  to  worship  in  spirit,  if  we  are  kept 
free  from  such  unfriendly  influences,  and  if  our  worship 
be  surrounded  by  all  the  outward  decency  and  solemnity 
which  are  attainable.  Give  us  a  decorous  building,  I 
don't  ask  for  a  grand  one ;  give  us  quietude  and  order 
in  all  its  arrangements ;  give  us  church  music  that 


62  OF  THE  SUDDEN  SWEETENING  OF 

soothes  and  cheers,  and  brings  us  fresh  heart ;  give  us 
an  assemblage  of  seemingly  devout  worshippers.  And 
these  things  being  present,  I  do  not  hesitate  to  say  that 
tfye  average  worshipper  will  be  far  more  likely  to  offer 
true  spiritual  worship  than  in  places  to  which  I  could 
easily  point,  where  the  discreditable  building  and  the 
slovenly  service  are  an  offence  and  a  mortification  to 
every  one  with  any  sense  of  what  is  fit. 

This,  however,  is  by  the  bye.  I  could  say  much  more 
on  the  subject.  But  I  remember,  thankfully,  that  it  is  a 
subject  on  which  all  educated  persons  now  think  alike, 
everywhere.  It  did  not  use  to  be  so,  once. 

But  not  merely  as  regards  churches,  but  as  regards 
most  other  things,  my  principle  holds  true,  that  if  you 
look  carefully  and  for  some  time  into  the  qualifications 
of  almost  anything  not  positively  bad,  you  will  discern 
a  great  deal  of  good  about  it.  Take  a  very  ordinary- 
looking  bunch  of  grapes ;  take  even  a  bunch  of  grapes 
which  appears  sour  at  a  cursory  glance :  look  at  it  care 
fully  for  a  good  while,  with  the  sense  that  it  is  your 
own ;  and  it  will  sweeten  before  your  eyes.  You  pass 
a  seedy  little  country  house,  looking  like  a  fourth-rate 
farm-house :  you  think,  and  possibly  say  (if  the  man 
who  lives  in  it  be  a  friend  of  your  own),  that  it  is  a 
wretched  hole.  The  man  who  lives  in  it  has  very  likely 
persuaded  himself  that  it  is  a  very  handsome  and  at 
tractive  place.  "  What  kind  of  manse  have  you  got  ?  " 
said  my  friend  Smith  to  a  certain  worthy  clergyman. 
"  Oh,  it  is  a  beautiful  place,"  was  the  prompt  reply.  It 
was  in  fact  a  dismal,  weather-stained,  whitewashed 
erection,  without  an  architectural  feature,  with  hardly 
a  tree  or  an  evergreen  near  it,  standing  on  a  bleak  hill- 


CERTAIN  GRAPES.  63 

side.  Smith  heard  the  reply  with  great  pleasure  ;  feel 
ing  thankful  that  by  God's  kind  appointment  a  sensible 
man's  own  grapes  seem  sweet  to  him,  which  appear 
sour  to  everybody  else,  and  to  nobody  sourer  than  to 
himself,  before  they  became  his  own.  The  only  wonder 
Smith  felt  was,  that  the  good  minister's  reply  had  not 
been  stronger.  He  was  prepared  to  hear  the  good  man 
say,  "  Oh,  it  is  the  most  beautiful  place  in  Scotland ! " 
For  people  in  general  cannot  express  their  appreciation 
of  things,  without  introducing  comparisons,  and  indeed 
superlatives.  If  a  man's  window  commands  a  fine  view, 
he  is  not  content  to  say  that  it  does  command  a  fine 
view :  no,  it  commands  "  the  finest  view  in  Britain." 
If  a  human  being  has  an  attack  of  illness,  about  a 
hundredth  part  as  bad  as  hundreds  of  people  endure 
every  day,  that  human  being  will  probably  be  quite 
indignant,  unless  you  recognize  it  as  a  fact,  that  nobody 
ever  suffered  so  much  before.  Take  an  undistinguished 
volume  from  your  shelves,  read  it  carefully  in  your 
leisure  hours  for  several  evenings,  and  that  undis 
tinguished  volume  will  become  (in  your  estimation)  an 
important  one.  My  friend  Smith,  when  he  went  to  his 
country  parish,  was  obliged  for  several  months  to  have 
his  books  in  large  packing-boxes,  his  study  not  being 
ready  to  receive  them.  He  lived  in  a  lonely  rural  spot, 
for  many  wintry  weeks,  all  alone.  It  was  a  charming 
scene  around,  indeed  ;  warm  with  green  ivy  and  yews 
and  hollies  through  the  brief  daylight,  but  dreary  and 
solitary  through  the  long  dark  evenings  to  a  man  ac 
customed  to  gas-lit  streets.  Soon  after  settling  there, 
Smith  chanced  to  draw  forth  from  a  box  a  certain 
volume,  which  had  remained  for  months  in  his  bookcase 


64       OF  THE  SUDDEN  SWEETENING  OF 

unnoted :  one  among  many  more,  all  very  like.  And 
on  every  Sunday  evening  of  that  solitary  time,  Smith 
read  in  that  volume.  He  read  with  pleasure  and  profit. 
Ever  since  then,  he  has  thought  the  book  a  valuable 
and  excellent  one.  It  is  distinguished  among  his  books 
as  the  Bishop  of  Anywhere  is  among  five  hundred  other 
clergymen ;  not  that  he  is  a  whit  wiser  or  better,  but 
that  he  has  been  accidentally  made  more  conspicuous. 
When  Smith  turns  over  its  leaves  now,  the  moaning 
of  January  winds  through  the  pine  wood  comes  back, 
and  the  brawl  of  a  brook,  winter-flooded.  In  brief,  that 
cluster  of  grapes  suddenly  sweetened,  because  its  merits 
were  fairly  weighed.  If  a  thing  be  good  at  all,  look  at 
it  and  examine  it,  and  it  will  seem  better. 

Now,  a  thing  you  have  no  chance  of  getting,  you 
never  seriously  weigh  the  merits  of.  When  you  receive 
a  half  offer  of  a  place  in  life,  it  is  quite  fair  for  you  to 
say,  "  Offer  it  fairly  and  I  shall  think  of  it."  You 
cannot  take  the  trouble  of  estimating  it  now.  It  is  a 
laborious  and  anxious  thing  to  make  up  your  mind  in 
such  a  case.  You  must  consider  and  count  up  and 
weigh  possibly  a  great  number  of  circumstances.  You 
do  not  choose  to  undergo  that  fatigue,  perhaps  for  no 
result.  And  if  you  be  in  perplexity  what  to  do,  the 
balance  may  be  turned  just  by  the  fact  that  the  thing 
is  attainable.  Hence  the  truth  of  that  true  proverb,  that 
Faint  heart  never  won  fair  lady.  If  you  are  fond  of 
Miss  Smith,  and  wish  to  marry  her,  don't  speculate 
at  home  whether  or  not  she  will  have  you.  Go  and  ask 
her.  Your  asking  may  be  the  very  thing  that  will  decide 
her  to  have  you.  And  you,  patron  or  electors  of  some 
little  country  parish  which  is  vacant,  don't  say,  "  We 


CERTAIN  GRAPES.  65 

need  never  offer  it  to  such  and  such  an  eminent  preach 
er  ;  he  would  never  think  of  it !  "  Go  and  try  bim. 
Perhaps  he  may.  Perhaps  you  may  catch  him  just  at 
a  time  when  he  is  feeling  weary  and  exhausted  ;  when 
he  is  growing  old  ;  when  your  offer  may  recall  with 
fresh  beauty  the  green  fields  and  trees  amid  which  he 
once  was  young ;  when  he  is  sighing  for  a  little  rest. 
I  could  point  out  instances,  more  than  one  or  two,  in 
England  and  in  Scotland,  in  which  a  bold  offering  of  a 
bunch  of  grapes  to  a  distinguished  human  being  induced 
him  to  accept  the  grapes ;  though  you  would  have 
fancied  beforehand  that  they  would  have  been  no 
temptation  to  him.  I  have  known  a  man  who  (in  a 
moral*  sense)  refused  a  pine-apple,  afterwards  accept 
a  turnip,  and  like  it.  We  have  all  heard  of  a  good  man 
who  might  have  lived  in  a  palace,  holding  a  position 
of  great  rank  and  gain,  and  of  very  easy  duty,  who  put 
that  golden  cluster  of  grapes  aside,  and  by  his  own  free 
choice  went  to  a  place  of  hard  work  and  little  fame  or 
profit,  to  remain  there  one  of  the  happiest  as  well  as  one 
of  the  noblest  and  most  useful  of  humankind  !  And 
the  only  way  in  which  I  can  account  for  various  mar 
riages  is  by  supposing  that  the  grapes  suddenly  grew 
irresistibly  sweet,  just  when  it  appeared  that  they  could 
be  had.  You  may  have  known  a  fair  young  girl  quite 
willingly  and  happily  marry  a  good  old  creature,  whom 
you  would  have  said  a  priori  she  was  quite  sure  to 
refuse.  But  when  the  old  creature  made  offer  of  his 
faded  self  (and  his  unfaded  possessions),  the  whole  thing 
offered  acquired  a  sudden  value  and  beauty.  He  might 
be  an  odd  stick  ;  but  then  his  estate  had  most  beautiful 
timber.  Intellectually  and  morally  he  might  be  inferior 


66  OF  THE  SUDDJEN  SWEETENING  OF 

or  even  deficient ;  but  then  his  -three  per  cents  formed 
a  positive  quantity  of  enormous  amount.  The  whole 
thing  offered  had  to  be  regarded  as  one  bunch  of  grapes. 
And  if  some  of  the  grapes  were  sour  and  shrivelled,  a 
greater  number  of  them  were  plump  and  juicy. 

Nobody  who  reads  this  page  really  knows  whether  he 
would  like  to  be  lord  chancellor  or  to  live  in  a  house  like 
Windsor  Castle.  The  writer  has  not  the  faintest  idea 
whether  he  would  like  to  be  Archbishop  of  Canterbury. 
We  never  even  ourselves  to  such  things  as  these.  We 
don't  seriously  consider  whether  the  grapes  are  sweet  or 
sour,  which  there  is  not  the  faintest  possibility  of  our 
ever  reaching.  When  Mr.  Disraeli  (as  he  himself  said 
in  Parliament)  "  would  have  been  very  thankml  for 
some  small  place,"  he  had  never  lifted  his  eyes  to  the 
leadership  of  a  certain  great  political  party.  Of  that 
lofty  cluster  he  had  no  estimate  then ;  but  the  modest 
little  bunch  of  twelve  hundred  a-year  seemed  attainable, 
and  so  seemed  sweet.  But  he  was  a  great  man  when  he 
said  "  I  am  very  glad  now  I  did  not  get  it  ! "  He  was 
destined  to  something  bigger  and  loftier.  And  when 
that  greater  position  at  last  loomed  in  view,  and  became 
possible,  became  likely,  —  we  can  well  believe  that  the 
great  orator  began  to  estimate  it ;  and  that  it  became  an 
object  of  honorable  ambition  when  it  was  very  near,  and 
was  all  but  grasped.  When  the  prize  is  within  reach,  it 
becomes  precious.  When  the  Atlantic  cable  was  being 
laid,  you  can  think  how  precious  it  would  seem  when  the 
vessels  which  were  laying  it  had  got  within  a  mile  or 
two  of  land.  Yes,  success,  just  within  our  grasp,  grows 
inestimably  valuable.  The  cluster  of  grapes,  long  striven 
after,  and  now  at  length  just  got  hold  of,  —  how  sweet 
it  seems ! 


CERTAIN  GRAPES.  67 

My  friend  Mr.  Brown  had  often  remarked  to  me,  "  If 
ever  there  was  a  hideous  erection  on  the  face  of  the 
earth,  it  is  that  St.  Sophia's  Church ;  and  I  don't  know 
a  man  less  to  be  envied  than  the  incumbent  of  so  labori 
ous  and  troublesome  a  parish."  Brown  and  I  were 
sitting  on  the  wall  of  his  beautiful  churchyard  in  the 
country  one  fine  summer  day,  when  he  made  this  re 
mark,  adding,  "  How  much  happier  a  life  we  have  here 
in  this  pure  air  and  among  these  sweet  fields  "  (and  in 
deed  the  fragrance  of  the  clover  was  very  delightful 
that  day),  "and  with  our  kindly,  well-behaved  country 
people  ! "  I  need  hardly  mention,  that  Mr.  Brown  shortly 
afterwards  succeeded  to  the  vacant  charge  of  St.  So 
phia's,  a  huge  church  in  a  great  city.  He  was  offered 
it  in  a  kind  way ;  saw  its  claims  and  advantages  in  a 
new  light ;  accepted  it,  and  is  very  happy  in  it.  And 
recently  he  recalled  to  my  memory  his  former  estimate 
of  it,  and  said  how  mistaken  it  was.  He  even  added, 
that,  although  the  architecture  of  St.  Sophia's  was  not 
the  purest  Gothic  (it  is  in  fact  not  Gothic  at  all),  still 
there  is  a  simple  grandeur  about  it,  which  produces  a 
great  effect  upon  the  mind  when  you  grow  accustomed 
to  it.  "  I  used  to  laugh,"  he  said,  "  at  poor  old  Dr.  Log 
when  he  declared  it  was  the  finest  church  in  Britain 
but,  do  you  know,  some  of  its  proportions  are  really  un 
rivalled.  Here,  for  instance,  look  at  that  arch  " ;  —  and 
then  he  went  on  at  considerable  length.  The  truth  was, 
that  the  grapes  had  suddenly  sweetened.  The  position 
never  thought  of,  or  thought  of  only  as  quite  unattainable, 
was  a  very  different  thing  now. 

I  do  not  for  a  moment  suppose  any  insincerity  on  the 
part  of  my  friend.      He  quite  sincerely  esteemed  the 


68  OF   THE   SUDDEN  SWEETENING   OF 

grapes  as  sour,  when  they  hung  beyond  his  reach.  He 
quite  sincerely  esteemed  them  as  sweet,  when  he  came 
to  know  them  better.  But,  as  a  general  rule,  whenever 
any  man  or  woman  undervalues  and  despises  something 
which  average  human  nature  prizes  and  enjoys,  we  may 
say  that  if  the  grapes  are  fairly  put  within  reach,  they 
would  suddenly  and  greatly  sweeten.  I  speak  of  aver 
age  human  nature.  There  are  exceptional  cases.  There 
is  a  great  and  good  man  who  did  not  choose  to  be  a 
bishop,  who  did  not  choose  to  be  an  archbishop.  The 
test  is,  that  he  was  offered  these  places  and  refused 
them.  But  there  are  a  great  many  men,  who  could  quite 
honestly  say  that  they  don't  want  to  be  bishops  or  arch 
bishops.  But  then  they  have  riot  been  tried  ;  and  there 
are  some  that  I  should  not  like  to  try.  I  believe  the 
lawn  would  brighten  into  effulgence,  when  it  was  offered. 
The  opportunity  of  usefulness  would  appear  so  great, 
that  it  could  not  in  conscience  be  refused.  The  grapes, 
being  within  reach,  would  grow  so  sweet,  that  those 
good  men  would  forget  their  old  professions,  and  (in 
the  words  of  Lord  Castlereagh)  turn  their  backs  upon 
themselves. 

Perhaps  you  have  known  a  refined  young  lady  of 
thirty-nine  years,  who  looked  with  disdain  at  her  young 
er  female  friends  when  they  got  married.  She  wondered 
at  their  weakness  in  getting  spoony  about  any  man,  and 
despised  their  flutter  of  interest  in  the  immediate  pros 
pect  of  the  wedding-day  and  all  its  little  arrangements. 
The  whole  thing  —  trousseau,  cards,  favors,  cake  —  was 
contemptible.  Perhaps  you  have  known  such  a  mature 
young  lady  get  married  herself  at  last,  and  evince  a 
pride  and  an  exhilaration  in  the  prospect  such  as  are 


CERTAIN   GRAPES.  69 

rarely  seen.  It  was  delightful  to  witness  the  maidenly 
airs  of  the  individual  to  whom  the  bunch  of  grapes  had 
finally  become  attainable  ;  the  enthusiastic  affection  she 
testified  towards  the  romantic  hero  (weighing  sixteen 
stone)  to  whom  she  had  given  her  young  affections  ;  the 
anguish  of  perplexity  as  to  the  material  and  fashion  of 
the  wedding-dress  ;  in  short,  the  sudden  sweetening  of 
the  grapes  which  had  previously  been  so  remarkably 
sour.  There  is  nothing  here  to  laugh  at :  it  is  a  benefi 
cent  providential  arrangement.  In  all  walks  of  life  you 
may  have  remarked  the  same.  You  may  have  known  a 
hard-featured  and  well-principled  servant,  who,  having 
no  admirer,  gave  herself  out  as  a  man-hater,  and  be 
lieved  herself  to  be  one.  But  some  one  turning  up  who 
(let  us  hope)  admired  and  appreciated  her  real  excel 
lence,  that  admirable  young  woman  grew  quite  tremen 
dous  :  first,  in  her  pride  and  exultation  that  she  had  a 
beau  ;  and  secondly,  in  her  admiration  and  fondness  for 
him.  Yes  ;  turn  out  human  nature  with  a  pitch  fork  ; 
and  it  will  come  back  again. 

Perhaps  you  have  known  a  wealthy  old  gentleman, 
living  quietly  somewhere  in  the  city  (let  the  word  be 
understood  in  its  cockney  sense),  and  going  into  no  so 
ciety  whatever,  who  frequently  professed  to  despise  the 
vanities  to  which  other  folk  attach  importance.  He 
utterly  contemned  such  things  as  a  fine  house,  a  fashion 
able  neighborhood,  titled  acquaintances,  and  the  like ; 
and  he  did  it  all  quite  sincerely.  But  nature  had  her 
way  at  last.  That  wealthy  gentleman  bought  a  house 
in  an  aristocratic  West  End  square.  His  elation  at 
finding  himself  there  was  pleasing,  yet  a  little  irritating. 
He  could  not  refrain  from  telling  everyone  that  he  lived 


70       OF  THE  SUDDEN  SWEETENING  OF 

there.  Occasionally  he  would  cut  short  a  conversation 
with  a  city  acquaintance,  by  stating  that  he  "  must  be 
home  to  dinner  at  half  past  seven  in  Berkeley  Square." 
He  speedily  informed  himself  of  the  precise  social  stand 
ing  of  every  inhabitant  of  that  handsome  quadrangle ; 
and  would  even  produce  the  "  Court  Guide, "  and  tell  an 
occasional  visitor  about  the  rank  and  connections  of 
each  name  in  the  square.  The  delight  with  which  he 
beheld  a  peer  at  his  dinner-table  may  be  conceived  but 
not  described.  The  grapes,  in  fact,  had  in  all  sincerity 
been  esteemed  as  sour  till  he  got  possession  of  them. 
Then,  all  of  a  sudden,  they  became  inconceivably  sweet. 
So  you  may  have  beheld  a  plain,  respectable  man,  who 
had  made  a  considerable  fortune  in  the  oil  trade,  buy  a 
property  in  the  country  and  settle  there.  "  I  want  noth 
ing  to  do  with  your  stuck-up  gentry,"  said  that  respecta 
ble  man.  "I  shall  keep  by  my  old  friends  Smith, 
Brown,  and  Robinson,  who  were  apprentices  with  old 
McOily  along  with  me,  forty  years  ago."  But  when 
the  carriage  of  the  neighboring  baronet  drove  up  to  the 
worthy  man's  door  to  call,  it  and  its  inmates  were 
received  with  enthusiasm.  There  was,  after  all,  a 
refinement  of  manner  and  feeling  about  gentle  blood, 
not  possessed  by  Smith  and  the  others ;  and  after  a  lit 
tle  intercourse  with  the  family  of  the  baronet,  and  with 
other  similar  families,  poor  Smith,  Brown,  and  Robinson 
got  so  chilly  a  reception  at  the  country  house,  and  were 
so  infuriated  by  the  frequent  mention  and  the  high  lau 
dation  of  the  landed  families  about  (whom  Smith  and 
his  friends  did  not  know  at  all),  that  these  old  acquain 
tances  quite  dropped  off;  and  the  good  old  oil-merchant 
was  left  to  the  enjoyment  of  the  grapes,  formerly  so 


CERTAIN  GRAPES.  71 

sour  and  now  so  sweet.  It  is  all  in  human  nature. 
You  may  have  known  a  cultivated  man,  with  a  small 
income,  living  in  a  city  of  very  rich  and  not  remarkably 
cultivated  men.  You  may  have  heard  him  speak  with 
much  contempt  of  mere  vulgar  wealth,  and  of  certain 
neighbors  who  possessed  it.  And  you  felt  how  easily 
that  cultivated  man  might  be  led  to  change  his  tune.  I 
have  witnessed  a  parallel  case.  Once  upon  a  time,  the 
writer  was  walking  along  a  certain  country  road,  a 
walk  of  nine  miles.  He  overtook  a  little  boy  walking 
along  manfully  by  himself,  —  a  little  fellow  of  seven 
years  old.  The  two  wayfarers  proceeded  together  for 
several  miles,  conversing  of  various  subjects.  It  ap 
peared,  in  the  course  of  conversation,  that  the  little  boy, 
whose  parents  are  very  poor,  never  had  any  pocket- 
money.  I  don 't  believe  he  ever  had  a  penny  to  spend 
in  all  his  life.  He  stated  that  he  did  not  care  for 
money,  nor  for  the  good  things  (in  a  child's  sense  of 
that  phrase)  which  might  be  bought  with  it.  And  part 
ing  from  the  little  man,  I  could  not  but  tip  him  a  shil 
ling.  Every  human  being  who  will  ever  read  this  page 
would  of  course  have  done  the  same.  It  was  his  very 
first  shilling.  He  tried  to  receive  it  with  philosophic 
composure,  as  if  he  did  not  care  a  bit  about  it.  But  he 
tried  with  little  success.  It  was  easy  to  see  how  differ- 
.ent  a  thing  a  shilling  had  suddenly  grown.  The  grapes 
had  all  at  once  sweetened. 

But  it  is  the  same  way  everywhere.  An  author 
without  popular  estimation  thinks  he  can  do  quite  well 
without  it :  he  does  not  care  for  it.  "  The  world  knows 
nothing  of  its  greatest  men  " ;  nor,  let  us  add,  of  its  best. 
Yet  popular  favor  proves  very  pleasant,  when  it  comes 


72       OF  THE  SUDDEN  SWEETENING  OF 

at  last.  So  a  barrister  without  briefs  does  not  want 
them  or  value  them,  till  they  come.  So  with  the  school 
boy  who  does  not  care  for  prizes ;  so  with  the  student 
at  college  whose  prize  essays  fail,  through  the  incompe 
tence  of  the  judges.  So  (I  fear)  with  the  very  intel 
lectual  preacher  who  would  rather  have  his  church 
empty  than  full,  and  who  (at  present)  thinks  that  only 
the  stupid  and  blinded  are  likely  to  attend  a  church 
where  all  the  seats  are  occupied.  I  have  known  clever 
young  fellows,  more  than  two  or  three,  who  at  a  very 
early  age  had  outgrown  all  ambition ;  men  who  had  in 
them  the  makings  of  great  things,  but  by  free  choice 
took  to  a  quiet  and  unnoted  life  ;  men  whose  university 
standing  had  been  unrivalled,  but  who  instead  of  aiming 
at  like  eminence  afterwards,  took  to  gardening,  to  ever 
greens  and  grass  and  trees ;  to,  contented  walks  through 
winter  fields ;  to  preaching  to  fifty  rustic  laborers ;  to 
reading  black-letter  books  in  chambers  at  the  Temple, 
instead  of  trying  for  the  Great  Seal ;  quite  happy,  and 
quite  sincere  in  thinking  and  saying  they  did  not  care 
for  more  eminent  places.  But '  at  length,  perhaps,  suc 
cess  and  eminence  come,  and  they  are  very  glad  and 
pleased.  Their  views  of  these  things  are  quite  changed. 
They  see  that  they  can  be  more  useful  than  they  are. 
They  feel  that  there  was  a  good  deal  of  indolent  self- 
indulgence  in  the  life  they  had  been  leading;  that 
there  is  more  in  this  life  than  to  practise  a  refined. 
Epicureanism,  —  at  least  while  strength  and  spirits 
suffice  for  more.  The  day  may  come,  when  these 
shall  be  worn  out,  and  then  the  old  thing  will  again 
be  pleasant. 

Let  us  hear  the  sum  of  the  whole  matter.     If  there 


CERTAIN  GRAPES.  73 

be  anything  in  this  world  which  is  in  its  nature  agree 
able  to  average  humanity,  yet  which  you  think  sour, 
the  likelihood  is,  that,  if  you  got  it,  it  would  grow  sweet. 
You  cannot  finally  turn  out  nature.  Though  you  may 
mow  it  down  very  tightly,  it  will  grow  again,  as  grass 
does  in  the  like  contingency.  And  if  there  be  in  you 
evil  and  unworthy  tendencies,  which  by  God's  grace 
you  have  resolved  to  extirpate,  you  must  keep  a  con 
stant  eye  upon  them.  You  must  knock  them  on  the 
head  not  once  for  all,  but  daily  and  hourly. 

There  are  things,  perhaps,  which  you  know  you  would 
like  so  much,  yet  which  are  so  unattainable,  that  you 
will  not  allow  yourself  to  think  of  them.  That  way  lies 
your  safety.  If  you  allowed  yourself  to  dwell  upon  them, 
and  upon  their  pleasures  and  advantages,  you  would  grow 
discontented  with  what  you  have.  So,  though  you  can 
not  help  sometimes  casting  a  hasty  glance  at  the  clus 
ter  of  grapes,  hanging  high,  which  you  would  like, 
but  which  you  will  never  have,  yet  don't  look  long  at 
it.  Don't  sit  down  and  contemplate  it  for  a  good  while 
from  various  points  of  view,  and  think  how  much  you 
would  like  it.  That  will  only  make  you  unhappy.  And 
if  you  have  known  this  world  long,  then  you  know  this 
about  it,  that  the  thing  you  would  like  best  is  just  the 
last  you  are  ever  likely  to  get.  But  of  this  I  shall  say 
no  more.  I  said  something  like  it  once  before,  and  got 
a  shower  of  long  letters  controverting  it. 

If  a  young  fellow  fails  in  his  profession,  and  then  say 
he  did  not  want  to  succeed,  let  us  believe  him.  He  i3 
entitled  to  this.  We  do  him,  in  most  cases,  no  more 
than  justice.  The  grapes  have  indeed  grown  sour,  and 
it  is  a  kind  appointment  of  Providence  that  it  is  so. 

4 


74       OF  THE  SUDDEN  SWEETENING  OF 

But   if  success   should   come  yet,  you  will  find  them 
sweeten  again  surprisingly. 

In  writing  upon  this  subject,  I  have  been  led  to  think 
of  many  things,  and  to  think  of  many  old  acquaintances. 
Not  very  cheerfully  did  the  writer  trace  out  the  first 
page,  still  less  so  the  last.  How  sadly  short  has  many  a 
one,  of  whom  we  expected  great  things,  fallen  of  those 
expectations !  Is  there  one  of  the  clever  boys  and 
thoughtful  lads  that  has  done  as  much  as  we  looked 
for  ?  Not  one. 

The  great  thing,  of  course,  that  resigns  one  to  this, 
and  to  anything  else,  is  the  firm  belief  that  God  orders 
all.  "!T  HAD  PLEASED  GOD  to  form  poor  Ned,  A 
thing  of  idiot  mind,"  wrote  Southey.  There  the  mat 
ter  is  settled.  We  have  not  a  word  more  to  say.  "  I 
was  dumb ;  I  opened  not  my  mouth :  BECAUSE  THOU 
DIDST  IT  !" 

We  have  all  smiled  at  the  fable  of  .ZEsop,  of  which 
the  writer  has  given  you  the  accurate  version,  and  smiled 
at  many  manifestations  we  have  seen  in  life  showing  its 
truth,  and  showing  us  how  human  nature,  age  after  age, 
abides  the  self-same  thing.  I  believe  it  is  one  of  the 
most  beneficent  arrangements  of  God's  providential  gov 
ernment,  that  the  grapes  we  cannot  reach  grow  sour. 
But  for  that,  this  would  be  a  world  of  turned  heads  and 
broken  hearts.  Who  has  got  the  purple  clusters  he  in 
his  childhood  thought  to  get  ?  Yet  who  (if  a  sensible 
mortal)  cares  ?  You  were  to  have  been  a  laurelled 
hero,  —  you  are  in  fact  a  half-pay  captain,  glad  to  be 
made  adjutant  of  a  militia  regiment.  You  were  to  have 


CERTAIN  GRAPES.  75 

been  Lord  Chancellor  of  Great  Britain,  —  you  are,  in 
fact,  parish  minister  of  Drumsleekie,  with  a  smoky 
manse,  and  heritors  who  oppose  the  augmentation  of 
your  living.  You  were  to  have  lived  in  a  grand  castle, 
possibly  built  of  alternate  blocks  of  gold  and  silver,  — 
you  live,  in  fact,  in  a  pl^in  house  in  a  street,  and  find  it 
hard  enough  to  pay  the  Christmas  bills.  And  you  were 
to  have  been  buried,  at  last,  in  Westminster  Abbey,  — 
while  in  fact  you  won't.  But  the  beauty  has  faded  off 
the  things  never  to  be  attained,  and  the  humble  grapes 
you  could  reach  have  sweetened ;  and  you  are  content. 
Yet  there  are  grapes  which,  if  submitted  to  your  close 
inspection,  would  seem  so  sweet  that  in  comparison  with 
them  those  you  have  would  seem  very  insipid ;  so  you 
may  be  glad  you  will  never  see  those  grapes  too  near 
nor  too  long. 


CHAPTER  V. 


CONCERNING  THE  ESTIMATE  OF  HUMAN  BEINGS. 


HE  other  day,  talking  with  my  friend  Smith, 
I  incidentally  said  something  which  implied 
that  a  certain  individual,  who  may  be  de 
noted  as  Mr.  X,  was  a  distinguished  and  in 
fluential  man.  "  Nonsense  ! "  was  Smith's  prompt  reply. 
"  I  saw  Mr.  X,"  continued  Smith,  "  at  a  public  meeting 
yesterday.  He  is  a  gorilla,  —  a  yahoo.  He  is  a  dirty 
and  ugly  party.  I  heard  him  make  a  speech.  He  has 
a  horribly  vulgar  accent,  and  an  awkward,  cubbish  man 
ner.  In  short,  he  is  not  a  gentleman,  nor  the  least  like 
one ! " 

And  having  said  this,  my  friend  Smith  thought  he 
had  finally  disposed  of  X. 

But  I  replied,  "  I  grant  all  that.  All  you  have  said 
about  X  is  true.  But  still  I  say  he  is  a  distinguished 
and  influential  man,  a  very  able  man,  —  almost  a  great 
man." 

Smith  was  not  convinced.  He  departed.  I  fear  I 
have  gone  down  in  his  estimation.  I  have  not  seen  him 
since.  Perhaps  he  does  not  want  to  see  me.  I  don't 
care. 


CONCERNING  THE  ESTIMATE  OF  HUMAN  BEINGS.  77 

But  my  friend  Smith's  observations  have  made  me 
think  a  good  deal  of  a  tendency  which  is  in  human 
nature.  It  is  very  t  natural,  if  we  find  a  man  grossly 
deficient  in  something  about  which  we  are  able  to  judge, 
—  and  perhaps  in  the  thing  about  which  we  are  able 
best  to  judge,  —  to  conclude  that  he  must  be  all  bad. 
In  the  judgment  of  many,  it  is  quite  enough  to  condemn 
a  man,  to  show  that  he  is  a  low  fellow,  with  an  extremely 
vulgar  accent.  We  forget  how  much  good  may  go  with 
these  evil  things  ;  good  more  than  enough  to  outweigh 
all  these  and  more.  There  is  great  difficulty  in  bringing 
men  heartily  to  admit  the  great  principle  which  may  be 
expressed  in  the  familiar  words,  —  FOR  BETTER,  FOR 
WORSE.  There  is  great  difficulty  in  bringing  men 
really  to  see  that  excellent  qualities  may  coexist  with 
grave  faults ;  and  that  a  man,  with  very  glaring  defects, 
may  have  so  many  great  and  good  qualities,  as  serve  to 
make  him  a  good  and  eminent  man,  upon  the  balance 
of  the  whole  account.  Though  you  can  show  that  A 
owes  a  hundred  thousand  pounds,  this  does  not  certainly 
show  that  A  is  a  poor  man.  Possibly  A  may  possess 
five  hundred  thousand  pounds,  and  so  the  balance  may 
be  greatly  in  his  favor. 

We  all  need  to  be  reminded  of  this.  It  is  very  plain, 
but  it  is  just  very  plain  things  that  most  of  us  practically 
forget.  There  are  many  folk  who  instantly^  on  discover 
ing  that  A  owes  the  hundred  thousand  pounds,  proceed  to 
declare  him  a  bankrupt  without  further  inquiry.  Pos 
sibly  the  debt  A  owes  is  constantly  and  strongly  pressed 
on  your  attention,  while  it  costs  some  investigation  to  be 
assured  of  the  large  capital  he  possesses.  There  is  one 
debt  in  particular  which,  if  we  find  owed  by  any  man,  it 


78  CONCERNING  THE  ESTIMATE  OF 

is  hard  to  prevent  ourselves  declaring  him  a  bankrupt 
without  more  investigation.  Great  vulgarity  will  com 
monly  stamp  a  man  in  the  estimation  of  refined  people, 
whatever  his  merits  may  be.  That  is  a  thing  not  to  be 
got  over.  If  a  man  be  deficient  by  that  hundred  thou 
sand  pounds,  all  the  gold  of  Ophir  will  (in  the  judgment 
of  many)  leave  him  poor.  Once  in  my  youth,  I  beheld 
an  eminent  preacher  of  a  certain  small  Christian  sect. 
I  knew  he  was  an  eloquent  orator,  and  that  he  was 
greatly  and  justly  esteemed  by  the  members  of  his  own 
little  communion.  I  never  heard  him  speak,  and  never 
beheld  him  save  on  that  one  occasion.  But,  sitting  near 
him  at  a  certain  public  meeting,  I  judged,  from  obvious 
indications,  that  he  never  had  brushed  his  nails  in  his 
life.  I  remember  well  how  disgusted  I  was,  and  how 
hastily  I  rushed  to  the  conclusion  that  there  was  no  good 
about  him  at  all.  Those  territorial  and  immemorial 
nails  hid  from  my  youthful  eyes  all  his  excellent  quali 
ties.  Of  course,  this  was  because  I  was  very  foolish  and 
inexperienced.  Men  with  worse  defects  may  be  great 
and  good  upon  the  whole.  Or,  to  return  to  my  analogy, 
no  matter  how  great  a  man's  debts  may  be,  you  must 
not  conclude  he  is  poor  till  you  ascertain  what  his  assets 
are.  These  may  be  so  great  as  to  leave  him  a  rich  man, 
though  he  owes  a  hundred  thousand  pounds. 

The  principle  which  I  desire  to  enforce  is  briefly  this, 
—  that  men  must  be  taken  for  better,  for  worse.  There 
may  be  great  drawbacks  about  a  thing,  and  yet  the  thing 
may  be  good.  Many  people  think,  in  a  confused  sort  of 
way,  that  if  you  can  mention  several  serious  objections 
to  taking  a  certain  course,  this  shows  you  should  not  take 
that  course.  Not  at  all.  Look  to  the  other  side  of  the 


HUMAN  BEINGS.  79 

account.  Possibly  there  are  twice  as  many  and  twice 
as  weighty  objections  to  your  not  taking  that  course. 
There  are  things  about  your  friend  Smith  that  you  don't 
like.  They  worry  you.  They  point  to  a  conclusion 
which  might  be  expressed  in  the  following  proposi 
tion  :  — 

SMITH  is  BAD. 

But  if  you  desire  to  arrive  at  a  just  and  sound  esti 
mate  of  Smith,  your  course  will  be  to  think  of  other 
things  about  Smith,  which  speak  in  a  different  strain. 
There  are  things  about  Smith  you  cannot  help  liking 
and  respecting  him  for.  And  these  point  to  a  conclusion 
which  a  man  of  a  comprehensive  mind  and  of  considerable 
knowledge  of  the  language  might  express  as  follows  :  — 

SMITH   is  GOOD. 

And  having  before  you  the  things  which  may  be 
said  pro  and  con,  it  will  be  your  duty  first  to  count 
them,  and  then  to  weigh  them.  Counting  alone  will 
not  suffice.  For  there  may  be  six  things  which  tell 
against  Smith,  and  only  three  in  his  favor  ;  and  yet 
the  three  may  be  justly  entitled  to  be  held  as  outweigh 
ing  the  six.  For  instance,  the  six  things  counting 
against  Smith  may  be  these  :  — 

1.  He  has  a  red  nose. 

2.  He  carries  an  extremely  baggy  cotton  umbrella. 

3.  He  wears  a  shocking  bad  hat. 

4.  When  you  make  any  statement  whatever  in  his 
hearing,  he  immediately  begins  to  prove,  by  argument, 
that  your  statement  cannot  possibly  be  true. 

5.  He  says  tremenduous  when  he  means  tremendous ; 
and  talks  of  a  prizenter  when  he  means  a  precentor. 


80  CONCERNING  THE  ESTIMATE  OF 

6.  He  is  constantly  saying,  "  How  very  curious ! " 
also,  "  Goodness  gracious  !  " 

Whereas  the  three  things  making  in  Smith's  favor 
may  be  these  :  — 

1 .  He  has  the  kindest  of  hearts. 

2.  He  has  the  clearest  of  heads. 

3.  He  is  truth  and  honor  impersonate. 

Now,  if  the  account  stand  thus,  the  balance  is  un 
questionably  in  Smith's  favor.  And  it  is  so  with 
everything  else  as  well  as  with  Smith.  When  you 
change  to  a  new  and  better  house,  it  is  not  all  gain.  It 
is  gain  on  the  whole ;  but  there  may  be  some  respects 
in  which  the  old  house  was  better  than  the  new.  And 
when  you  are  getting  on  in  life,  it  is  not  all  going 
forward.  In  some  respects  it  may  be  going  back.  It 
is  an  advance,  on  the  whole,  when  the  attorney-general 
becomes  chancellor;  yet  there  were  pleasant  things 
about  the  other  way  too,  which  the  chancellor  misses. 
It  is,  to  most  men,  a  gain  on  the  whole  to  leave  a 
beautiful  rectory  for  a  bishop's  palace ;  yet  the  change 
has  its  disadvantages  too,  and  some  pleasant  things  are 
lost.  When  Bishop  Poore,  who  founded  Salisbury 
Cathedral  in  the  thirteenth  century,  left  his  magnificent 
church  amid  its  sweet  English  scenery,  to  be  bishop  of 
the  bleak  northern  diocese  of  Durham,  he  must  have 
felt  he  was  sacrificing  a  great  deal.  Yet  to  be  Bishop 
of  Durham  in  those  days  was  to  be  a  Prince  of  the 
Church,  with  a  Prince's  revenue ;  and  so  Bishop  Poore 
was,  on  the  whole,  content  to  go.  I  daresay  in  the 
thirteen  years  he  lived  at  Durham  before  he  died,  he 
often  wondered  whether  he  had  not  done  wrong. 

You  will  find  men  who  are  good  classical  scholars 


HUMAN  BEINGS.  81 

ready  to  think  it  extinguishes  a  man  wholly  to  show 
that  he  is  grossly  ignorant  of  Latin  and  Greek.  It  is 
to  be  granted,  no  doubt,  that  as  a  classical  training  is  an 
essential  part  of  a  liberal  education,  the  lack  of  it  is  a 
symptomatic  thing,  like  a  man  dropping  his  h's.  He 
must  be  a  vulgar  man  who  talks  about  his  Ouse  and  his 
Hoaks.  And  even  so,  to  write  about  rem  quomodo  rem, 
as  an  eminent  divine  has  done,  raises  awful  suspicions. 
So  it  is  with  macte  estate  puer.  Still,  we  may  build  too 
much  on  such  things.  By  a  careful  study  of  English 
models,  a  man  may  come  to  have  a  certain  measure  of 
classical  taste  and  sensibility,  though  he  could  not  con 
strue  a  chance  page  of  ^Eschylus  or  Thucydides,  or  even 
an  ode  of  Horace.  Yet  you  will  never  prevent  many 
scholars  from  sometimes  throwing  in  such  a  man's  face 
his  lack  of  Latin  and  Greek,  as  though  that  utterly 
wiped  him  out.  I  cannot  but  confess,  indeed,  that  there 
is  no  single  fact  which  goes  more  fatally  to  the  question, 
whether  a  man  can  claim  to  be  a  really  educated  person, 
than  the  manifest  want  of  scholarship  ;  all  I  say  is,  that 
too  much  may  be  made  of  even  this.  You  know  that  a 
false  quantity  in  a  Latin  quotation  in  a  speech  in 
Parliament  can  never  be  quite  got  over.  It  stamps  the 
unfortunate  individual  who  makes  it.  He  may  have 
many  excellent  qualities,  many  things  of  much  more 
substantial  worth  than  the  power  of  writing  alcaics  ever 
so  fluently,  yet  the  suspicion  of  the  want  of  the  educa 
tion  of  a  gentleman  will  brand  him.  Yet  Paley  was  a 
great  man,  though,  when  he  went  to  Cambridge  to 
take  his  degree  of  Doctor  of  Divinity,  in  the  Ooncio  ad 
Clerum  he  preached  on  that  occasion,  he  pronounced 
profugus,  profugus.  A  shower  of  epigrams  followed. 

'    4*  F 


82  CONCERNING  *THE  ESTIMATE  OF 

Many  a  man,  incomparably  inferior  to  Paley  on  the 
whole,  felt  his  superiority  to  Paley  in  the  one  matter 
of  scholarship.  Here  was  a  joint  in  the  great  man's 
armor,  at  which  it  was  easy  to  stick  in  a  pin.  Lockhart, 
too,  was  a  very  fair  scholar,  though  you  read  at  Abbots- 
ford,  above  the  great  dog's  grave,  certain  lines  which 
he  wrote  : — 

"  Maidae  marmorea  dormis  sub  imagine,  Maida, 
Ad  januam  Domini.     Sit  tibi  terra  levis  !  " 

You  will  find  it  difficult,  if  you  possess  a  fair  acquaint 
ance  with  the  literature  of  your  own  country,  to  sup 
press  some  little  feelings  of  contempt  for  a  man  whose 
place  in  life  should  be  warrant  that  he  is  an  educated 
man,  yet  who  is  blankly  ignorant  of  the  worthy  books  in 
even  his  own  language.  Yet  you  may  find  highly  re 
spectable  folk  in  that  condition  of  ignorance  ;  —  medical 
men  in  large  practice  ;  country  attorneys,  growing  yearly 
in  wealth  as  their  clients  are  growing  poorer ;  clergy 
men,  very  diligent  as  parish  priests,  and  not  unversed  in 
theology,  if  versed  in  little  else.  I  have  heard  of  a 
highly  respectable  divine,  of  no  small  standing  as  a 
preacher,  who  never  had  heard  of  the  Spectator  (I  mean, 
of  course,  Steele  and  Addison's  Spectator),  at  a  period 
very  near  the  close  of  his  life.  And  certain  of  his 
neighbors,  who  willingly  laughed  at  that  good  man's 
ignorance,  were  but  one  degree  ahead  of  him  in  literary 
information.  They  knew  the  Spectator,  but  they  had 
never  heard  of  Mr.  Ruskin  nor  of  Lord  Macaulay. 
Still,  they  could  do  the  work  which  it  was  their  busi 
ness  to  do,  very  reputably.  And  that  is  the  great  thing 
after  all. 


HUMAN  BEINGS.  83 

The  truth  is,  that  the  tendency  in  a  good  scholar  to 
despise  a  man  devoid  of  scholarship,  and  the  tendency  in 
a  well-read  man  to  despise  one  who  has  read  little  or 
nothing  besides  the  newspapers,  is  just  a  more  dignified 
development  of  that  impulse  which  is  in  all  human 
beings  to  think  A  or  B  very  ignorant,  if  A  or  B  be  un 
acquainted  with  things  which  the  human  beings  first 
named  know  well.  I  have  heard  a  gardener  say,  with 
no  small  contempt,  of  a  certain  eminent  scholar,  "  Ah, 
he  knows  nothing ;  he  does  not  know  the  difference  be 
tween  an  arbutus  and  a  juniper."  Possibly  you  have 
heard  a  sailor  say  of  some  indefinite  person,  "  He  knows 
nothing ;  he  does  not  know  the  foretop  from  the  bin 
nacle."  I  have  heard  an  architect  say  of  a  certain  man, 
to  whom  he  had  shown  a  certain  noble  church,  "  Why, 
the  fellow  did  not  know  the  chancel  from  the  transept." 
And  although  the  architect,  being  an  educated  man,  did 
not  add  that  the  fellow  knew  nothing,  that  was  certainly 
vaguely  suggested  by  what  he  said.  A  musician  tells 
you,  as  something  which  finally  disposes  of  a  fellow- 
creature,  that  he  does  not  know  the  difference  between 
a  fugue  and  a  madrigal.  I  remember  somewhat  despis 
ing  a  distinguished  classical  professor,  who  read  out  a 
passage  of  Milton  to  be  turned  into  heroic  Latin  verse. 
One  line  was,  — 

"  Fled  and  pursued  transverse  the  resonant  fugue  " ; 

which  the  eminent  man  made  an  Alexandrine,  by  pro 
nouncing  fugue  in  two  syllables,  as  FEWGEW.  In  fact, 
if  you  find  a  man  decidedly  below  you  in  any  one  thing, 
if  it  were  only  in  the  knowledge  how  to  pronounce 
fugue,  you  feel  a  strong  impulse  to  despise  him  on  the 


84  CONCERNING  THE  ESTIMATE  OF 

whole,  and  to  judge  that  he  stands  below  you  *  alto 
gether. 

Probably  the  most  common  error  in  the  estimate  of 
human  beings,  is  one  already  named ;  it  is,  to  think 
meanly  of  a  man  if  you  find  him  plainly  not  a  gentle 
man.  And  I  have  present  to  my  mind  now  a  case 
which  we  have  all  probably  witnessed ;  namely,  a  set  of 
empty-headed  puppies,  of  distinguished  aspect  and  lan 
guid  address,  imperfectly  able  to  spell  the  English  lan 
guage,  and  incapable  of  anything  but  the  emptiest  badi 
nage  in  the  respect  of  conversation,  yet  expressing  their 
supreme  contempt  for  a  truly  good  man,  who  may  have 
shown  himself  ignorant  of  the  usages  of  society.  You 
remember  how  Brummell  mentioned  it  as  a  fact  quite 
sufficient  to  extinguish  a  man,  that  he  was  "  a  person 
who  would  send  his  plate  twice  for  soup."  The  judg 
ment  entertained  by  Brummell,  or  by  any  one  like 
Brummell,  is  really  not  worth  a  moment's  consideration. 
I  think  of  the  difficulty  which  good  and  sensible  people 
feel,  in  believing  the  existence  of  sterling  merit  along 
with  offensive  ignorance  and  vulgarity.  Yet  a  man 
whom  no  one  could  mistake  for  a  gentleman  may  have 
great  ability,  great  eloquence  in  his  own  way,  great 
influence  with  the  people,  great  weight  even  with  culti 
vated  folk.  I  am  not  going  to  indicate  localities  or  men 
tion  names,  though  I  very  easily  could.  No  doubt,  it  is 
irritating  to  meet  a  member  of  the  House  of  Commons, 
and  to  find  him  a  vulgar  vaporer.  Yet,  with  all  that, 
he  may  be  a  very  fit  man  to  be  in  Parliament  ;  and  he 
may  have  considerable  authority  there,  when  he  sticks 
to  matters  he  can  understand.  And  if  refined  and  schol 
arly  folk  think  to  set  such  a  one  aside,  by  mentioning 


HUMAN  BEINGS.  85 

that  he  cannot  read  Thucydides,  they  will  find  them 
selves  mistaken. 

It  is  to  many  a  very  bitter  pill  to  swallow,  a  very 
disagreeable  thing  to  make  up  one's  mind  to,  yet  a  thing 
to  which  the  logic  of  facts  compels  every  wise  man  to 
make  up  his  mind,  that  in  these  days  men  whose  fea 
tures,  manners,  accent,  entire  ways  of  thinking  and 
speaking,  testify  to  their  extreme  vulgarity,  have  yet 
great  influence  with  large  masses  of  mankind.  And  it 
is  quite  vain  for  cultivated  folk  to  think  to  ignore  such. 
Lien  grossly  ignorant  of  history,  of  literature,  of  the 
classics,  men  who  never  brushed  their  nails,  men  who 
don't  know  when  to  wear  a  dress-coat  and  when  a  frock, 
may  gain  great  popularity  and  standing  with  a  great 
part  of  the  population  of  Great  Britain.  Their  vul 
garity  may  form  a  high  recommendation  to  the  people 
with  whom  they  are  popular.  It  would  be  easy  to 
point  out  places  where  anything  like  refinement  or  cul 
tivation  would  be  a  positive  hindrance  to  a  man.  Let 
not  blocks  be  cut  with  razors.  Let  not  coals  be  carried 
in  gilded  chariots.  Rougher  means  will  be  more  ser 
viceable  ;  and  if  people  of  great  cultivation  say,  "  A  set 
of  vulgar  fellows,  not  worth  thinking  of" ;  and  refuse  to 
see  the  work  such  men  are  doing,  and  to  counteract  it 
where  its  effects  are  evil;  those  cultivated  people  will 
some  day  regret  it.  I  occasionally  see  a  periodical  pub 
lication,  containing  the  portraits  of  men  who  are  esteemed 
eminent  by  a  certain  class  of  human  beings.  Most  of 
those  men  are  extremely  ugly,  and  all  of  them  extremely 
vulgar-looking.  The  natural  impulse  is  to  throw  the 
coarse  effigies  aside,  and  to  judge  that  such  persons  can 
do  but  little,  either  for  good  or  ill.  But  if  you  inquire, 


86  CONCERNING  THE  ESTIMATE  OF 

you  will  find  they  are  doing  a  great  work,  and  wielding 
a  great  influence  with  a  very  large  section  of  the  popu 
lation  ;  the  work  and  influence  being,  in  my  judgment,  of 
the  most  mischievous  and  perilous  character. 

Then  a  truth  very  much  to  be  remembered  is,  that 
the  fact  of  a  man's  doing  something  conspicuously  and 
extremely  ill  is  no  proof  whatsoever  that  he  is  a  stupid 
man.  To  many  people  it  appears  as  if  it  were  such  a 
proof,  simply  because  their  ideas  are  so  ill-defined.  If 
a  clergyman  ride  on  horseback  very  badly,  he  had  much 
better  not  do  so  in  the  presence  of  his  humbler  parish 
ioners.  The  esteem  in  which  they  hold  his  sermons  will 
be  sensibly  diminished  by  the  recollection  of  having 
seen  him  roll  ignominiously  out  of  the  saddle,  and  into 
the  ditch.  Still,  in  severe  logic,  it  must  be  apparent 
that  if  the  sermons  be  good  in  themselves,  the  bad 
horsemanship  touches  them  not  at  all.  It  comes  merely 
to  this,  —  that  if  you  take  a  man  off  his  proper  ground, 
he  may  make  a  very  poor  appearance  ;  while  on  his 
proper  ground,  he  would  make  a  very  good  one.  A 
swan  is  extremely  graceful  in  the  water  ;  the  same 
animal  is  extremely  awkward  on  land.  I  have  thought 
of  a  swan  clumsily  waddling  along  on  legs  that  cannot 
support  its  weight,  when  I  have  witnessed  a  great  scholar 
trying  to  make  a  speech  on  a  platform,  and  speaking 
miserably  ill.  The  great  scholar  had  left  his  own  ele 
ment,  where  he  was  graceful  and  at  ease ;  he  had  come 
to  another,  which  did  not  by  any  means  suit  him.  And 
while  he  floundered  and  stammered  through  his  wretched 
little  speech,  I  have  beheld  fluent  empty -pates  grinning 
with  joy  at  the  badness  of  his  appearance.  They  had 
got  the  great  scholar  to  race  with  them  ;  they  in  their 


HUMAN  BEINGS.  87 

own  element,  and  he  out  of  his.  They  had  got  him 
into  a  duel,  giving  them  the  choice  of  weapons ;  and 
having  beat  him  (as  logicians  say),  secundum  quid,  they 
plainly  thought  they  had  beat  him  simpliciter.  You 
may  have  been  amused  at  the  artifices  by  which  men, 
not  good  at  anything  but  very  fluent  speaking,  try  to 
induce  people,  infinitely  superior  to  them  in  every  re 
spect  save  that  one,  to  make  fools  of  themselves  by 
miserable  attempts  at  that  one  thing  they  could  not  do. 
The  fluent  speakers  thought,  in  fact,  to  tempt  the  swan 
out  of  the  water.  The  swan,  if  wise,  will  decline  to 
come  out  of  the  water. 

I  have  beheld  a  famous  anatomist  carving  a  goose. 
He  did  it  very  ill.  And  the  faith  of  the  assembled 
company  in  his  knowledge  of  anatomy  was  manifestly 
shaken.  You  may  have  seen  a  great  and  solemn  phi 
losopher  seeking  to  make  himself  agreeable  to  a  knot 
of  pretty  young  girls  in  a  drawing-room.  The  great 
philosopher  failed  in  his  anxious  endeavors,  while  a 
brainless  cornet  succeeded  to  perfection.  Yet  though 
the  cornet  eclipsed  the  philosopher  in  this  one  respect, 
it  would  be  unjust  to  say  that,  on  the  whole,  the  cornet 
was  the  philosopher's  superior.  I  have  beheld  a  pious 
and  amiable  man  playing  at  croquet.  He  played  fright 
fully  ill.  He  made  himself  an  object  of  universal  deri 
sion  ;  and  he  brought  all  his  good  qualities  into  grave 
suspicion,  in  the  estimation  of  the  gay  young  people 
with  whom  he  played.  Yes,  let  me  recur  to  my  great 
principle, — no  clergyman  should  ever  hazard  his  gen 
eral  usefulness  by  doing  anything  whatsoever  signally 
ill  in  the  presence  of  his  parishioners.  If  he  have  not  a 
good  horse,  and  do  not  ride  well,  let  him  not  ride  at  all. 


88  CONCERNING  THE  ESTIMATE  OF 

•  And  if,  living  in  Scotland,  he  be  a  curler ;  or,  living  in 
England,  join  in  the  sports  of  his  people ;  though 
it  be  not  desirable  that  he  should  display  pre-eminent 
skill  or  agility,  he  ought  to  be  a  good  player,  —  above 
the  average. 

It  is  an  interesting  thing  to  see  how  habitually,  in 
this  world,  excellence  in  one  respect  is  balanced  by  in 
feriority  in  another ;  how  needftil  it  is,  if  you  desire  to 
form  a  fair  judgment,  to  take  men  for  better,  for  worse. 
I  have  oftentimes  beheld  the  ecclesiastics  of  a  certain 
renowned  country  assembled  in  their  great  council  to 
legislate  on  church  affairs.  And,  sitting  mute  on 
back  benches,  never  dreaming  of  opening  their  lips,  — 
pictures  of  helplessness  and  sheepishness,  —  I  have  be 
held  the  best  preachers  of  that  renowned  country:  I 
am  not  going  to  mention  their  names.  Meanwhile, 
sitting  in  prominent  places,  speaking  frequently  and 
lengthily,  speaking  in  one  or  two  cases  with  great  pith 
and  eloquence,  I  have  beheld  other  preachers,  whose 
power  of  emptying  the  pews  of  whatever  church  they 
might  serve  had  been  established  beyond  question  by 
repeated  trials.  Yet,  by  tacit  consent,  these  dreary  ora 
tors  were  admitted  as  the  church's  legislators ;  and,  in 
many  cases,  not  unjustly.  There  is  a  grander  church, 
in  a  larger  country,  in  which  the  like  balance  of  facul 
ties  may  be  perceived  to  exist.  The  greater  clergymen 
of  that  church  are  entitled  bishops.  Now,  by  the  public 
at  large,  the  bishops  are  regarded  in  the  broad  light  of 
the  chief  men  of  the  church ;  that  is,  the  greatest  and 
most  distinguished  men.  Next,  the  thing  as  regards 
which  the  general  public  can  best  judge  of  a  clergyman 
is  his  preaching.  The  general  public,  therefore,  regard 


HUMAN  BEINGS.  88 

the  best  preachers  as  the  most  eminent  clergymen.  But 
the  qualities  which  go  to  make  a  good  bishop  are  quite 
different  from  those  which  go  to  make  a  great  preacher. 
Prudence,  administrative  tact,  kindliness,  wide  sympa 
thies,  are  desirable  in  a  bishop.  None  of  these  things 
can  be  brought  to  the  simple  test  of  the  goodness  of  a 
man's  sermon.  Indeed,  the  fiery  qualities  which  go  to 
make  a  great  preacher  do  positively  unfit  a  man  for 
being  a  bishop.  From  all  this  comes  an  unhappy  an 
tagonism  between  the  general  way  of  thinking  as  to 
who  should  be  bishops,  and  the  way  in  which  the  people 
who  select  bishops  think.  And  the  general  public  is 
often  scandalized  by  hearing  that  this  man  and  the 
other,  whom  they  never  heard  of,  or  whom  they  know 
to  be  a  very  dull  preacher,  is  made  a  bishop ;  while  this 
or  that  man,  who  charms  and  edifies  them  by  his  admi 
rable  sermons,  is  passed  over.  For  the  tendency  is  in 
veterate  with  ill-cultivated  folk,  to  think  that  if  a  man 
be  very  good  at  anything  he  must  be  very  good  at  every 
thing.  And  with  uneducated  folk,  the  disposition  is  al 
most  ineradicable,  to  conclude  that  if  you  are  very  igno 
rant  on  some  subject  they  know,  you  know  nothing ;  and 
that  if  you  do  very  ill  something  as  to  which  they  can 
judge,  you  can  do  nothing  at  all  well.  Pitt  said  of 
Lord  Nelson,  that  the  great  admiral  was  the  greatest 
fool  he  ever  knew,  when  on  shore.  A  less  wise  man 
than  Pitt,  judging  Nelson  a  very  great  fool  on  shore, 
would  have  hurried  to  the  conclusion  that  Nelson  was  a 
fool  everywhere  and  altogether.  And  Nelson  himself 
showed  his  wisdom,  when  informed  of  what  Pitt  had 
said.  "  Quite  true,"  said  Nelson  ;  "  but  I  should  soon 
prove  Pitt  a  fool  if  I  had  him  on  board  a  ship."  It 


90  CONCERNING  THE  ESTBIATE  OF 

may,  indeed,  be  esteemed  as  certain  that  Pitt's  strong 
common-sense  would  not  have  failed  him,  even  at  sea ; 
but  when  he  was  rolling  about  in  deadly  sea-sickness, 
and  testifying  twenty  times  in  an  hour  his  ignorance  of 
nautical  affairs,  it  may  be  esteemed  as  equally  certain 
that  the  sailors  would  have  regarded  him  as  a  fool. 

I  have  heard  vulgar,  self-sufficient  people  in  a  country 
parish  relate  with  great  delight  instances  of  absence  of 
mind  and  of  lack  of  ordinary  sense,  on  the  part  of  a 
good  old  clergyman  of  great  theological  learning,  who 
was  for  many  years  the  incumbent  of  that  parish.  A 
thoughtful  person  would  be  interested  in  remarking 
instances  in  which  an  able  and  learned  man  proved 
himself  little  better  than  a  baby.  But  it  was  not  for 
the  psychological  interest  that  those  people  related  their 
wretched  little  bits  of  ill-set  gossip.  It  was  for  the  pur 
pose  of  conveying,  by  innuendo,  that  there  was  no  good 
about  that  simple  old  man  at  all ;  that  he  was,  in  fact, 
a  fool  simpliciter.  But  if  you,  learned  reader,  had  taken 
that  old  man  on  his  own  ground,  you  would  have  discov 
ered  that  he  was  anything  but  a  fool.  "  What 's  the  use 
of  all  your  learning,"  his  vulgar  and  ignorant  wife  was 
wont  to  say  to  him,  "  if  you  don't  know  how  to  ride  on 
horseback,  and  how  turnips  should  be  sown  after 
wheat  ?  " 

You  may  remember  an  interesting  instance,  in  the 
Life  of  George  Stephenson,  of  two  great  men  supple 
menting  each  the  other's  defects.  George  Stephenson 
was  arguing  a  scientific  point  with  a  fluent  talker  who 
knew  very  little  about  the  matter ;  but  though  Stephen- 
son's  knowledge  of  the  subject  was  great,  and  his  opin 
ions  sound,  he  was  thoroughly  reduced  to  silence.  He 


HUMAN  BEINGS.  91 

had  no  command  of  language  or  argument.  He  had  a 
good  case,  but  he  did  not  know  how  to  conduct  it.  But 
all  this  happened  at  a  country-house  where  Sir  "William 
Follett  was  likewise  staying.  Follett  saw  that  Stephen- 
son  was  right,  and  he  was  impatient  of  the  triumph  of 
the  fluent  talker.  Follett,  of  course,  had  magnificent 
powers  of  argument,  but  he  had  no  knowledge  whatever 
of  the  matter  under  discussion.  But,  privately  getting 
hold  of  Stephenson,  Follett  got  Stephenson  to  coach 
him  up  in  the  facts  of  the  case.  Next  day,  the  great 
advocate  led  the  conversation  once  more  to  the  disputed 
question ;  and  now  Stephenson's  knowledge  and  Follett's 
logic  combined  smashed  the  fluent  talker  of  yesterday 
to  atoms. 

Themistocles,  every  one  knows,  could  not  fiddle,  but 
he  could  make  a  little  city  a  big  one.  Yet  the  people 
who  distinctly  saw  he  could  not  fiddle  were  many,  while 
those  who  discerned  his  competence  in  the  other  direc 
tion  were  few.  So,  it  is  not  unlikely  that  many  peo 
ple  despised  him  for  his  bad  fiddling,  failing  to  remark 
that  it  was  not  his  vocation  to  fiddle.  Goldsmith  wrote 
The  Vicar  of  Wakefield  and  The  Good-natured  Man ; 
yet  he  felt  indignant  at  the  admiration  bestowed  by  a 
company  of  his  acquaintances  upon  the  agility  of  a  mon 
key  ;  and,  starting  up  in  anger  and  impatience,  ex 
claimed,  "  I  could  do  all  that  myself. "  I  have  heard 
of  a  very  great  logician  and  divine,  who  was  dissatisfied 
that  a  trained  gymnast  should  excel  him  in  feats  of 
strength,  and  who  insisted  on  doing  the  gymnast's  feats 
himself;  and,  strange  to  say,  he  actually  did  them. 
Wise  men  would  not  have  thought  the  less  of  him 
though  he  had  failed ;  but  it  is  certain  that  many  aver- 


92  CONCERNING  THE  ESTIMATE  OF 

age  people  thought  the  more  of  him  because  he  suc 
ceeded. 

There  are  single  acts  which  may  justly  be  held  as 
symptomatic  of  a  man's  whole  nature ;  for,  though  done 
in  a  short  time,  they  are  the  manifestation  of  ways  of 
thinking  and  feeling  which  have  lasted  through  a  long 
time.  To  have  written  two  or  three  malignant  anony 
mous  letters  may  be  regarded  as  branding  a  man  finally. 
To  have  only  once  tried  to  stab  a  man  in  the  back  may 
justly  raise  some  suspicion  of  a  man's  candor  and  hon 
esty  ever  after.  You  know,  my  reader,  that  if  A  poi 
sons  only  one  fellow  creature,  the  laws  of  our  country 
esteem  that  single  deed  as  so  symptomatic  of  A 's  whole 
character,  that  they  found  upon  it  the  general  conclusion 
that  A  is  not  a  safe  member  of  society ;  and  so,  with  all 
but  universal  approval,  they  hang  A.  Still  the  doing 
of  one  or  two  very  malicious  and  dishonorable  actions 
may  not  indicate  that  a  man  is  wholly  dishonorable  and 
malicious.  These  may  be  no  more  than  an  outburst  of 
the  bad  which  is  in  every  man,  cleared  off  thus,  as 
electricity  is  taken  out  of  the  atmosphere  by  a  good 
thunder-storm.  I  am  not  sure  what  I  ought,  in  fairness, 
to  think  of  a  certain  individual,  describing  himself  as  a 
clergyman  of  the  Church  of  England,  who  has  formed 
an  unfavorable  opinion  of  the  compositions  of  the  pres 
ent  writer,  and  who,  every  now  and  then,  sends  me  an 
anonymous  letter.  It  is,  indeed,  a  curious  question, 
how  a  human  being  can  deliberately  sit  down  and  spend 
a  good  deal  of  time  in  writing  eight  rather  close  pages 
of  anonymous  matter  of  an  unfriendly,  not  to  say  abu 
sive  character,  and  then  send  it  off  to  a  man  who  is  a 


HUMAN  BEINGS.  93 

total  stranger.  What  are  we  to  think  of  this  individ 
ual?  Are  we  to  think  favorably  of  him  as  a  clergy 
man  and  as  a  gentleman  ?  He  has  sent  me  a  good 
many  letters ;  and  I  shall  give  you  some  extracts  from 
the  last.  For  the  sake  of  argument,  let  it  be  said  that 
my  name  is  Jones.  I  am  a  clergyman  of  the  Estab 
lished  Church  in  a  certain  county.  But  my  corre 
spondent  plainly  thinks  it  a  strong  point  to  call  me  a 
Dissenter,  which  he  does  several  times  in  each  of  his 
letters.  Of  course,  he  knows  that  I  am  not  a  Dis 
senter  ;  but  this  mode  of  address  seems  to  please  him. 
I  give  you  the  passages  from  his  last  letter  verbatim, 
only  substituting  Jones  for  another  name,  of  no  interest 
to  anybody :  — 

REV.  JONES  (Dissenting  Preacher)  :  — 

I  have  read  your  Sermons  from  curiosity.  They  ex 
hibit  your  invincible  conceit,  like  all  your  other  works. 
Your  notion  as  to  the  resurrection  of  the  old  body  is 
utterly  exploded,  except  amongst  such  divines  as  Dr. 
Gumming  (who  is  not  eminent,  as  you  assert),  and  simi 
lar  riff-raff. 

There  is  now-a-days  no  Sabbath.  The  Scotch,  who 
talk  of  a  "  Sabbath,"  are  fools  and  ignorant  fanatics.  I 
am  glad  to  see  that  you,  Jones,  were  well  castigated  by 
a  London  paper  for  lending  your  name  to  a  hateful 
crusade  of  certain  fanatics  in  Edinburgh  (including  the 
odious  Guthrie),  against  opening  the  paries  to  the  people 
on  Sunday.  I  intend  to  visit  Edinburgh  or  Glasgow 
some  Sunday,  and  to  walk  about,  as  a  clergyman,  be 
tween  the  services,  with  some  little  ostentation,  in  order 
to  show  my  contempt  of  the  local  custom.  Let  any 


94  CONCERNING  THE  ESTIMATE  OF 

low  Scotch  Presbyterian  lay  hands  on  me  at  his  peril ! 
Ah,  Jones,  you  evidently  dare  not  say  your  soul  is  your 
own  in  Scotland ! 

Neither  Caird  nor  Gumming  are  men  of  first-rate 
ability.  Gumming  is  a  mere  dunce,  not  even  literate. 
How  can  you  talk  of  understanding  the  works  of  Mr. 
Maurice  ?  Of  course  not :  you  are  too  low-minded  and 
narrow-souled !  But  do  not  dare  to  disparage  such  ex 
alted  merit.  Say  you  are  a  fool,  and  blind,  and  we  may 
excuse  you. 

You  are  clearly  unable  to  appreciate  excellence  of 
any  kind.  Your  assertion,  that  the  doctrines  of  the 
Church,  our  Church,  are  Galvinistic,  is  a  false  one. 
Calvinism  is  now  confined  to  illiterate  tinkers,  Dissent 
ers,  Puritans,  and  low  Scotch  Presbyterians. 

Your  constant  use  of  the  phrase,  "  My  friends,"  ill 
your  sermons,  is  bad  and  affected.  We  are  not  your 
"  friends " ;  and  you  care  nothing  for  your  hearers,  ex 
cept  to  gain  their  applause  ! 

I  remain,  Sir  Jones,  with  no  very  great  respect, 
Your  obedient  servant, 

P.  A. 

P.  S.  —  Poor  A.  K.  H.  B.     Why  not  A.  S.  S. ! 

Now,  my  reader,  how  shall  we  estimate  the  man  that 
wrote  this  ?  Can  he  be  a  gentleman  ?  Can  he  be  a 
clergyman  ?  I  have  received  from  him  a  good  many 
letters  of  the  same  kind,  which  I  have  destroyed,  or  I 
might  have  culled  from  them  still  more  remarkable 
flowers  of  rhetoric.  In  a  recent  letter  he  drew  a  very 
unfavorable  comparison  between  the  present  writer  and 
the  author  of  Friends  in  Council.  In  that  unfavorable 


HUMAN  BEINGS.  95 

comparison  I  heartily  concur ;  but  it  may  be  satisfactory 
to  Mr.  P.  A.  to  know  that  immediately  after  receiving 
his  letter  I  was  conversing  with  the  author  of  Friends 
in  Council,  and  that  I  read  his  letter  to  my  revered 
friend.  And  I  do  not  think  Mr.  P.  A.  would  have  been 
gratified  if  he  had  heard  the  opinion  which  the  author 
of  Friends  in  Council  expressed  of  P.  A.  upon  the 
strength  of  that  one  letter.  Let  us  do  P.  A.  justice. 
For  a  long  time  he  sent  his  anonymous  letters  unpaid, 
and  each  of  them  cost  me  twopence.  For  some  time 
past  he  has  paid  his  postages.  Now  this  is  an  improve 
ment.  The  next  step  in  advance  which  remains  for  P. 
A.  is  to  cease  wholly  from  writing  anonymous  letters. 

Now  to  conclude :  — 

There  is  great  difficulty  in  estimating  human  beings ; 
that  is,  in  placing  them  (in  the  racing  sense)  in  your 
own  mind.  And  the  difficulty  comes  of  this,  that  you 
have  to  take  a  conjunct  view  of  a  man's  deservings  and 
ill-deservings ;  the  man's  merit  is  the  resultant  of  all 
his  qualities,  good  and  bad.  In  a  race  the  comparison 
is  brought  to  the  single  point  of  speed,  —  or,  more  accu 
rately  speaking,  to  the  test,  which  horse  shall,  on  a  given 
day,  pass  the  winning-post  first.  Every  one  understands 
the  issue ;  and  the  prize  goes  on  just  the  one  considera 
tion.  Great  confusion  and  difficulty  would  arise  if 
other  issues  were  brought  in ;  as  for  instance,  if  a  man 
were  permitted  to  say  to  the  owner  of  the  winner, 
"  You  have  passed  the  post  first,  but  then  my  horse  has 
the  longest  tail,  and,  upon  the  strength  of  that  fact,  I 
claim  the  cup."  Yet,  in  placing  human  beings  (men 
tally)  for  the  race  of  life,  the  case  is  just  so.  You  are. 


96  CONCERNING  THE  ESTIMATE  OF 

making  up  your  mind,  "  Is  this  man  eminent  or  ob 
scure  ?  is  he  deserving  or  not  ?  is  he  good  or  bad  ? " 
But  there  is  no  one  issue  to  which  you  can  rightly  bring 
his  merits.  He  may  exhibit  extraordinary  skill  and 
ability  in  doing  some  one  thing ;  but  a  host  of  little 
disturbing  circumstances  may  come  to  perplex  your 
judgment.  Mr.  Green  was  a  good  scholar  and  a  clever 
fellow ;  yet  I  have  heard  Mr.  Brown  say,  "  Green !  ah, 
he's  a  beast !  Do  you  know,  he  told  me  he  always 
studies  without  shoes  and  stockings  ! "  And  then  there 
is  a  difficulty  in  saying  what  importance  ought  to  be 
attached  to  those  disturbing  causes,  as  well  as  whether 
they  exist  or  not.  One  man  thinks  a  long  tail  a  great 
beauty,  another  attaches  no  consequence  to  a  long  tail. 
One  man  concludes  that  Mr.  Green  is  a  beast  because 
he  studies  without  shoes  or  stockings ;  another  holds 
that  as  an  indifferent  circumstance,  not  affecting  his  esti 
mate  of  Green.  I  fear  we  can  come  to  no  more  satis 
factory  conclusion  than  this,  —  that  of  Green,  and  of 
each  human  being,  there  are  likely  to  be  just  as  many 
different  estimates  as  there  are  people  who  will  take  the 
trouble  of  forming  an  estimate  of  them  at  all. 

You  will  remark,  I  have  been  speaking  of  estimates, 
honestly  formed  and  honestly  expressed.  No  doubt  we 
often  hear  and  often  read  estimates  of  men,  which  esti 
mates  have  been  plainly  disturbed  by  other  forces.  No 
wise  man  will  attach  much  weight  to  the  estimate  of  a 
successful  man,  which  is  expressed  by  a  not  very  mag 
nanimous  man  whom  he  has  beaten.  If  A  sends  an  article 
to  a  magazine,  and  has  it  rejected,  he  is  not  a  competent 
judge  of  the  merit  of  the  articles  which  appear  in  that 
number  in  which  he  wished  his  to  be.  You  would  not 


HUMAN  BEINGS.  97 

ask  for  a  fair  estimate  of  Miss  Y's  singing  from  a  young 
lady  who  tries  to  sing  as  well  and  fails.  You  would  not 
expect  a  very  reliable  estimate  of  a  young  barrister,  get 
ting  into  great  practice,  from  poor  Mr.  Briefless,  mortified 
at  his  own  ill-success.  You  would  not  look  for  a  very 
flattering  estimate  of  Mr.  Melvill  or  Bishop  Wilberforce 
from  a  preacher  who  esteems  himself  as  a  great  man, 
but  who  somehow  gets  only  empty  pews  and  bare  walls 
to  hear  him  preach.  Sometimes,  in  such  estimates,  there 
are  real  envy  and  malice,  as  shown  by  intentional  mis 
representation  and  mere  abuse.  More  frequently,  we 
willingly  believe,  there  is  no  intention  to  estimate  un 
fairly  ;  the  bias  against  the  man  is  strong,  but  it  is  not 
designed.  A  writer  cut  off  from  the  staff  of  a  periodical, 
though  really  an  honest  man,  has  been  known  to  attack 
another  writer  retained  on  that  staff.  Let  me  say  that, 
in  such  a  case  a  very  high-minded  man  would  decline  to 
express  publicly  any  estimate,  being  aware  that  he  could 
not  help  being  somewhat  biassed. 

Let  this  be  a  rule :  — 

If  we  think  highly  of  one  who  has  beaten  us,  let  us 
say  out  our  estimate  warmly  and  heartily. 

If  we  think  ill  of  one  who  has  beaten  us,  let  us  keep 
our  estimate  to  ourselves.  It  is  probably  unjust ;  and 
even  if  it  be  a  just  estimate,  few  men  of  experience 
will  think  it  so. 


CHAPTER    VI. 


REMEMBRANCE. 


HALL  I,  because  I  have  seen  the  subject 
which  has  been  simmering  in  my  mind  for 
several  past  days  treated  beautifully  by 
another  hand,  resolve  not  to  touch  that  sub 
ject,  and  to  let  my  thoughts  about  it  go  ?  No,  I  will 
not. 

It  was  a  little  disheartening,  no  doubt,  when  I  looked 
yesterday  at  a  certain  magazine,  to  find  what  I  had 
designed  to  say  said  far  better  by  somebody  else.  But 
then  Dean  Alford  said  it  in  graceful  and  touching  verse  : 
I  aimed  no  higher  than  at  homely  prose. 

Sitting,  my  friend,  by  the  evening  fireside, — sitting  in 
your  easy  chair,  at  rest,  and  looking  at  the  warm  light 
on  the  rosy  face  of  your  little  boy  or  girl,  sitting  on  the 
rug  by  you,  —  do  you  ever  wonder  what  kind  of  remem 
brance  these  little  ones  will  have  of  you,  if  God  spares 
them  to  grow  old  ?  Look  into  the  years  to  come  :  think 
of  that  smooth  face,  lined  and  roughened ;  that  curly 
hair,  gray  ;  that  expression,  now  so  bright  and  happy, 
grown  careworn  and  sad,  and  you  long  in  your  grave. 
Of  course,  your  son  will  not  have  quite  forgot  you.  He 


REMEMBRANCE.  99 

will  sometimes  think  and  speak  of  his  father  who  is 
gone.  What  kind  of  remembrance  will  he  have  of  you  ? 
Probably  very  dim  and  vague. 

You  know  for  yourself,  that  when  you  look  at  your 
little  boy  in  the  light  of  the  fire,  who  is  now  a  good 
deal  bigger  than  in  the  days  when  he  first  was  able  to 
put  a  soft  hand  in  yours  and  to  walk  by  your  side,  you 
have  but  an  indistinct  remembrance  of  what  he  used  to 
be  then.  Knowing  how  much  you  would  come  to  value 
the  remembrance  of  those  days,  you  have  done  what 
you  could  to  perpetuate  it.  As  you  turn  over  the 
leaves  of  your  diary,  you  find  recorded  with  care  many 
of  that  little  man's  wonderful  sayings ;  though,  being 
well  aware  that  these  are  infinitely  more  interesting  to 
you  than  to  other  people,  you  have  sufficient  sense 
to  keep  them  to  yourself.  There  are  those  of  your 
fellow-creatures  to  whom  you  would  just  as  soon  think 
of  speaking  about  these  things  as  you  would  think  of 
speaking  about  them  to  a  jackass.  And  you  have  aided 
your  memory  by  yearly  photographs,  thankful  that 
such  invaluable  memorials  are  now  possible,  and  lament 
ing  bitterly  that  they  came  so  late.  Yet,  with  all  this 
help,  and  though  the  years  are  very  few,  your  remem 
brance  of  the  first  summer  that  your  little  boy  was  able 
to  run  about  on  the  grass  in  the  green  light  of  leaves, 
and  to  go  with  you  to  the  stable-yard  and  look  with 
admiration  at  the  horse,  and  with  alarm  at  the  pig 
voraciously  devouring  its  breakfast,  is  far  less  vivid 
and  distinct  than  you  would  wish  it  to  be.  Taught  by 
experience,  you  have  striven  with  the  effacing  power 
of  time ;  yet  assuredly  not  with  entire  success.  Yes, 
your  little  boy  of  three  years  old  has  faded  somewhat 


100  REMEMBRANCE. 

from  your  memory ;  and  you  may  discern  in  all  this  the 
way  in  which  you  will  gradually  fade  from  his.  Never 
forgotten,  if  you  have  been  the  parent  you  ought  to  be, 
you  will  be  remembered  vaguely.  And  you  think  to 
yourself,  in  the  restful  evening,  looking  at  the  rosy  face, 
Now,  when  he  has  grown  old,  how  will  he  remember 
me  ?  I  shall  have  been  gone  for  many  a  day  and  year  ; 
all  my  work,  all  my  cares  and  troubles,  will  be  over  ;  all 
those  little  things  will  be  past  and  forgot,  which  went 
to  make  up  my  life,  and  about  which  nobody  quite  knew 
but  myself.  The  table  at  which  I  write,  the  inkstand, 
all  my  little  arrangements,  will  be  swept  aside.  That 
little  man  will  have  come  a  long,  long  way  since  he 
saw  me  last.  How  will  he  think  of  me  ?  Will  he  some 
times  recall  my  voice,  and  the  stories  I  told,  and  the 
races  I  used  to  run  ?  Will  he  sometimes  say  to  a 
stranger,  "  That's  his  picture,  not  very  like  him  "  ;  will 
he  sometimes  think  to  himself,  "  There  is  the  corner 
where  he  used  to  sit ;  I  wonder  where  his  chair  is 
now  ?  " 

Cowper,  writing  at  the  age  of  fifty-eight,  says  of  his 
mother :  "  She  died  when  I  had  completed  my  sixth 
year,  yet  I  remember  her  well.  I  remember  too  a  mul 
titude  of  maternal  tendernesses  which  I  received  from 
her,  and  which  have  endeared  her  memory  to  me  be 
yond  expression."  For  fifty-two  years  the  over-sensi 
tive  poet  had  come  on  his  earthly  pilgrimage  since  the 
little  boy  of  six  last  saw  his  mother's  face.  Of  course, 
at  that  age,  he  could  understand  very  little  of  what  is 
meant  by  death ;  and  very  little  of  that  great  truth, 
which  Gray  tells  us  he  discovered  for  himself,  and 
which  very  few  people  learn  till  they  find  it  by  exper-i- 


REMEMBRANCE.  101 

ence,  that  in  this  world  a  human  being  never  can  have 
more  than  one  mother.  Yet  we  can  think  of  the  poor 
little  man,  finding  daily  that  no  one  cared  for  him  now 
as  he  used  to  be  cared  for,  finding  that  the  kindest 
face  he  could  remember  was  now  seen  no  more.  And 
doubtless  there  was  -a  vague,  overwhelming  sorrow  at 
his  heart,  which  lay  there  unexpressed  for  half  a  cent 
ury,  till  his  mother's  picture  sent  him  by  a  relative 
touched  the  fount  of  feeling,  and  inspired  the  words  we 
all  know :  — 

" I  heard  the  bell  tolled  on  thy  burial  day; 
I  saw  the  hearse  that  bore  thee  slow  away  ; 
And,  turning  from  my  nursery  window,  drew 
A  long,  long  sigh,  and  wept  a  last  adieu ! 

But  was  it  such  ?  —  It  was.     Where  thou  art  gone, 
Adieus  and  farewells  are  a  sound  unknown. 
May  I  but  meet  thee  on  that  peaceful  shore, 
The  parting  word  shall  pass  my  lips  no  more !  " 

Nobody  likes  the  idea  of  being  quite  forgot.  Yet 
sensible  people  have  to  make  up  their  mind  to  it.  And 
you  do  not  care  so-  much  about  being  forgotten  by  those 
beyond  your  own  family  circle.  But  you  shrink  from 
the  thought  that  your  children  may  never  sit  down 
alone,  and,  in  a  kindly  way,  think  for  a  little  of  you 
after  you  are  dead.  And  all  the  little  details  and  inter 
ests  which  now  make  up  your  habitude  of  life  seem  so 
real,  that  there  is  a  certain  difficulty  in  bringing  it  home 
to  one  that  they  are  all  to  go  completely  out,  leaving  no 
trace  behind.  Of  course  they  must.  Our  little  ways, 
my  friend,  will  pass  from  this  earth ;  and  you  and  I  will 
be  like  the  brave  men  who  lived  before  Agamemnon. 
A  clergyman  who  is  doing  his  duty  diligently  does  not 


102  REMEMBRANCE. 

like  to  think  that  when  he  goes  he  will  be  so  soon  for 
gotten  in  his  old  parish  and  his  old  church.  Bigger 
folk,  no  doubt,  have  the  same  feeling.  A  certain  great 
man  has  been  entirely  successful  in  carrying  out  his 
purpose;  which  was,  he  said,  to  leave  something  so 
written  that  men  should  not  easily*  let  it  die.  But  that 
which  is  nearest  us  touches  us  most.  We  sympathize 
most  readily  with  little  men.  Perhaps  you  preached 
yesterday  in  your  own  church  to  a  large  congregation 
of  Christian  people.  Perhaps  they  were  very  silent  and 
attentive.  Perhaps  the  music  was  very  beautiful,  and 
its  heartiness  touched  your  heart.  The  service  was 
soon  over;  it  may  have  seemed  long  to  some.  Then 
the  great  tide  of  life  that  had  filled  the  church  ebbed 
away,  and  left  it  to  its  week-day  loneliness.  The  like 
happens  each  Sunday.  And  many  years  hence,  after 
you  are  dead,  some  old  people  will  say,  Mr.  Smith  was 
minister  of  this  parish  for  so  many  years.  That  is  all. 
And  looking  back  for  even  five  or  ten  years,  a  common 
Sunday's  service  is  as  undistinguished  in  remembrance 
as  a  green  leaf  on  a  great  beech-tree  now  in  June,  or  as 
a  single  flake  in  a  thick  fall  of  snow. 

Probably  you  have  seen  a  picture  by  Mr.  Noel  Paton, 
called  The  Silver  Cord  Loosed.  It  is  one  of  the  most 
beautiful  and  touching  of  the  pictures  of  that  great  paint 
er.  I  saw  it  the  day  before  yesterday,  not  for  the  first 
or  second  time.  People  came  into  the  place  where  it 
was  exhibited,  talking  and  laughing;  but  as  they  stood 
before  that  canvas,  a  hush  fell  on  all.  On  a  coach, 
there  is  a  female  figure  lying  dead.  Death  is  unmis 
takably  there,  but  only  in  its  beauty ;  and  beyond, 
through  a  great  window,  there  is  a  glorious  sunset  sky. 


REMEMBRANCE.  103 

"  Thy  sun  shall  no  more  go  down,  neither  shall  thy 
moon  withdraw  herself,  for  the  Lord  shall  be  thine  ever 
lasting  light,  and  the  days  of  thy  mourning  shall  be 
ended."  Seated  by  the  bed,  there  is  a  mourner,  with 
hidden  face,  in  his  first  overwhelming  grief.  Looking 
at  that  picture  in  former  days,  I  had  thought  how  "  at 
evening  time  there  shall  be  light,"  but  looking  at  it  now, 
with  the  subject  of  this  essay  in  my  mind,  I  thought 
how  that  man,  so  crushed  meanwhile,  if  the  first  grief 
do  not  kill  him  (and  the  greatest  grief  rarely  kills  the 
man  of  sound  physical  frame),  would  get  over  it,  and 
after  some  years  would  find  it  hard  to  revive  the  feelings 
and  thoughts  of  this  day.  People  in  actual  modern  life 
are  not  attired  in  the  picturesque  fashion  of  the  mourner 
in  Mr.  Noel  Paton's  picture,  but  it  is  because  many  can 
from  their  own  experience  tell  what  a  human  being  in 
like  circumstances  would  be  feeling  that  this  detail  of 
the  picture  is  so  touching.  And  the  saddest  thing  about 
it  is  not  the  present  grief,  it  is  the  fact  that  the  grief 
will  so  certainly  fade  and  go.  And  no  human  power 
can  prevent  it.  "  The  low  beginnings  of  content "  will 
force  themselves  into  conscious  existence,  even  in  the 
heart  that  is  most  unwilling  to  recognize  them.  You 
will  chide  yourself  that  you  are  able  so  soon  to  get  over 
that  which  you  once  fancied  would  darken  all  your  after 
days.  And  all  your  efforts  will  not  bring  back  the  first 
sorrow,  nor  recall  the  thoughts  and  the  atmosphere  of 
that  time.  When  you  were  a  little  boy,  and  a  little 
brother  pinched  your  arm  so  that  a  red  mark  was  left, 
you  hastened  down-stairs  to  make  your  complaint  to  the 
proper  authority.  On  your  way  down,  fast  as  you  went, 
you  perceived  that  the  red  mark  was  fading  out,  and 


104  REMEMBRANCE. 

becoming  invisible.  And  did  you  not  secretly  give  the 
place  another  pinch  to  keep  up  the  color  till  the  injury 
should  be  exhibited  ?  Well,  there  are  mourners  who  do 
just  the  like.  I  think  I  can  see  some  traces  of  that  in 
In  Memoriam.  In  sorrow  that  the  wound  is  healing, 
you  are  ready  to  tear  it  open  afresh.  And  by  observing 
anniversaries,  by  going  to  places  surrounded  by  sad 
associations,  some  human  beings  strive  to  keep  up  their 
feelings  to  the  sensitive  point  of  former  days.  But  it 
will  not  do.  The  surface,  often  spurred,  gets  indurated  ; 
sensation  leaves  it,  and  after  a  while,  you  might  as  well 
think  to  excite  sensation  in  a  piece  of  India  rubber  by 
pricking  it  with  a  pin,  as  think  to  waken  any  real  feel 
ing  in  the  heart  which  has  indeed  met  a  terrible  wound, 
but  whose  wound  is  cicatrized.  All  this  is  very  sad  to 
think  of.  Indeed,  I  confess  to  thinking  it  the  very  sor 
est  point  about  the  average  human  being.  Great  grief 
may  leave  us,  but  it  should  not  leave  us  the  men  we 
were.  There  are  people  in  whose  faces  I  always  look 
with  wonder,  thinking  of  what  they  have  come  through, 
and  of  how  little  trace  it  has  left.  I  have  gone  into  a- 
certain  room,  where  everything  recalled  vividly  to  me 
one  who  was  dead.  Furniture,  books,  pictures,  piano, 
how  plainly  they  brought  back  the  face  of  one  far 
away !  But  the  regular  inmates  of  the  house  had  no 
such  feeling ;  had  it  not,  at  least,  in  any  painful  degree. 
No  doubt,  they  had  felt  it  for  a  while,  and  outgrown  it ; 
whereas  to  me  it  came  fresh.  And  after  a  time  it  went 
from  me  too. 

You  know  how  we  linger  on  the  words  and  looks  of 
the  dead  after  they  are  gone.  It  is  our  sorrowful  pro 
test  against  the  power  of  Time,  which  we  know  is  taking 


REMEMBRANCE.  105 

these  things  from  us.  We  try  to  bring  back  the  features 
and  the  tones ;  and  we  are  angry  with  ourselves  that  we 
cannot  do  so  more  clearly.  "  Such  a  day,"  we  think, 
"  we  saw  them  last :  so  they  looked  :  and  such  words 
they  said."  We  do  that  about  people  for  whom  we  did 
not  especially  care  while  they  lived :  a  certain  conse 
cration  is  breathed  about  them  now.  But  how  much 
more  as  to  those  who  did  not  need  this  to  endear  them  ! 
You  ought  to  know  the  lines  of  a  true  and  beautiful 
poet  about  his  little  brother  who  died  :  — 

"  And  when  at  last  he  was  borne  afar 
From  the  world's  weary  strife,    • 
How  oft  in  thought  did  we  again 
Live  o'er  his  little  life ! 

"  His  every  look,  his  eveiy  word, 

His  very  voice's  tone, 
Came  back  to  us  like  things  whose  worth 
Is  only  prized  when  gone!  " 

I  wish  I  could  tell  Mr.  Hedderwick  how  many  scores 
of  times  I  repeated  to  myself  that  most  touching  poem 
in  which  these  verses  stand.  But  I  know  (for  human 
nature  is  always  the  same)  that,  when  the  poet  grew  to 
middle  age  and  more,  those  tones  and  looks  that  came 
so  vividly  back  in  the  first  days  of  bereavement  would 
grow  indistinct  and  faint.  And  now,  when  he  sits  by 
the  fire  at  evening,  or  when  he  goes  out  for  a  solitary 
walk,  and  tries  to  recall  his  little  brother's  face,  he  will 
grieve  to  feel  that  it  seems  misty  and  far  away. 

"  I  cannot  see  the  features  right, 

When  on  the  gloom  I  strive  to  paint 
The  face  I  knew;  the  hues  are  faint, 
And  mix  with  hollow  masks  of  night." 
5* 


106  REMEMBRANCE. 

And  you  will  remember  how  Mr.  Hawthorne,  with 
his  sharp  discernment  of  the  subtle  phenomena  of  the 
inind,  speaking  in  the  name  of  one  who  recalled  the 
form  and  aspect  of  a  beautiful  woman  not  seen  for 
years,  says  something  like  this :  When  I  shut  my  eyes, 
I  see  her  yet,  but  a  little  wanner  than  when  I  saw  her 
in  fact. 

Yes ;  and  as  time  goes  on,  a  great  deal  wanner.  I 
have  remarked  that  even  when  the  outlines  remain  in 
our  remembrance,  the  colors  fade  away. 

Thus  true  is  it,  that  as  for  the  long  absent  and  the 
long  dead,  their  remembrance  fails.  Their  faces,  and 
the  tones  of  their  voice,  grow  dim.  And  sometimes  we 
have  all  thought  what  a  great  thing  it  would  be  to  be 
able  at  will  to  bring  all  these  back  with  the  vividness 
of  reality.  What  a  great  thing  it  would  be  if  we  could 
keep  them  on  with  us,  clearly  and  vividly  as  we  had 
them  at  the  first !  When  your  young  sister  died,  oh 
how  distinctly  you  could  hear,  for  many  days,  some 
chance  sentence  as  spoken  by  her  gentle  voice  !  When 
your  little  child  was  taken,  how  plainly  you  could  feel, 
for  a  while,  the  fat  little  cheek  laid  against  your  own,  as 
it  was  for  the  last  time  !  But  there  is  no  precious  pos 
session  we  have  which  wears  out  so  fast  as  the  remem 
brance  of  those  who  are  gone.  There  never  was  but 
one  case  where  that  was  not  so.  Let  us  remember  it  as 
we  are  told  of  it  in  the  never-failing  Record :  there  are 
not  many  kindlier  words,  even  there :  — 

"  But  the  Comforter,  which  is  the  Holy  Ghost,  whom 
the  Father  will  send  in  my  name,  He  shall  teach  you  all 
things,  and  bring  all  things  to  your  remembrance,  what 
soever  I  have  said  unto  you." 


REMEMBRANCE.  107 

So  you  see  in  that  case  the  dear  remembrance  would 
never  wear  out  but  with  life.  The  Blessed  Spirit  would 
bring  back  the  words,  the  tones,  the  looks,  of  the  Blessed 
Redeemer,  as  long  as  those  lived  who  had  heard  and 
seen  Him.  He  was  to  do  other  things,  still  more  im 
portant  ;  but  you  will  probably  feel  what  a  wonderfully 
kindly  and  encouraging  view  it  gives  us  of  that  Divine 
Person,  to  think  of  Him  as  doing  all  that.  And  while 
we  have  often  to  grieve  that  our  best  feelings  and  im 
pulses  die  away  so  fast,  think  how  the  Apostles,  every 
where,  through  all  their  after  years,  would  have  recalled 
to  them  when  needful  all  things  that  the  Saviour  had 
said  to  them ;  and  how  He  said  those  things ;  and  how 
He  looked  as  He  said  them.  They  had  not  to  wait  for 
seasons  when  the  old  time  'came  over  them;  when 
through  a  rift  in  the  cloud,  as  it  were,  they  discerned  for 
a  minute  the  face  they  used  to  know;  and  heard  the 
voice  again,  like  distant  bells  borne  in  upon  the  breeze. 
No  :  the  look  was  always  on  St.  Peter,  that  brought  him 
back  from  his  miserable  wander;  and  St.  John  could 
recall  the  words  of  that  parting  discourse  so  accurately, 
after  fifty  years. 

The  poet  Motherwell  begins  a  little  poem  with  this 
verse :  — 

"  When  I  beneath  the  cold  red  earth  am  sleeping, 

Life's  fever  o'er, 
Will  there  for  me  be  any  bright  eye  weeping 

That  I  'm  no  more? 

Will  there  be  any  heart  sad  memory  keeping 
Of  heretofore  ?" 

Now  that  is  a  pretty  verse,  but  to  my  taste  it  seems 
tainted  with  sentimentalism.  No  man  really  in  earnest 
could  have  written  these  lines.  And  I  feel  not  the 
slightest  respect  for  the  desire  to  have  "bright  eyes 


108  REMEMBRANCE. 

weeping "  for  you,  or  to  have  some  vague  indefinite 
"  heart "  remembering  you.  Mr.  Augustus  Moddle,  or 
any  empty-headed  lackadaisical  lad,  writing  morbid 
verses  in  imitation  of  Byron,  could  do  that  kind  of 
thing.  The  man  whose  desire  of  remembrance  takes 
the  shape  of  a  wish  to  have  some  pretty  girl  crying  for 
him  (which  is  the  thing  aimed  at  in  the  mention  of  the 
"bright  eye  weeping")  is  on  precisely  the  same  level,  in 
regard  to  taste  and  sense,  with  the  silly,  conceited  block 
head  who  struts  about  in  some  place  of  fashionable 
resort,  and  fancies  all  the  young  women  are  looking  at 
him.  Why  should  people  with  whom  you  'have  nothing 
to  do  weep  for  you  after  you  are  dead,  any  more  than 
look  at  you  or  think  of  you  while  you  are  living  ?  But 
it  is  a  very  different  feeling,  and  an  infinitely  more 
respectable  one,  that  dwells  with  the  man  who  has  out 
grown  silly  sentimentalism,  yet  who  looks  at  those  whom 
he  holds  dearest;  at  those  whose  stay  he  is,  and  who 
make  up  his  great  interest  in  life ;  at  those  whom  he 
will  remember,  and  never  forget,  no  matter  where  he 
may  go  in  God's  universe  ;  and  who  thinks,  Now,  when 
the  impassable  river  runs  between,  —  when  I  am  an 
old  remembrance,  unseen  for  many  years,  —  and  when 
they  are  surrounded  by  the  interests  of  their  after  life, 
and  daily  see  many  faces  but  never  mine  ;  how  will  they 
think  of  me?  Do  not  forget  me,  my  little  children 
whom  I  loved  so  much,  when  I  shall  go  from  you.  I 
do  not  wish  you  (a  wise,  good  man  might  say)  to  vex 
yourselves,  little  things  ;  I  do  not  wish  you  to  be  gloomy 
or  sad ;  but  sometimes  think  of  your  father  and  mother 
when  they  are  far  away.  You  may  be  sure  that, 
wherever  they  are,  they  will  not  be  forgetting  you. 


CHAPTER    VII. 


ON  THE  FOREST    HILL:   WITH   SOME    THOUGHTS 
TOUCHING  DREAM-LIFE. 

HY  is  it  that  that  purple  hill  will  not  get  out 
of  my  mind  to-night  ?  I  am  sure  it  is  not 
that  I  cared  for  it  so  much  when  I  could  see 
it  as  often  as  I  pleased.  I  suppose,  my 
reader,  that  you  know  the  painful  vividness  with  which ' 
distant  scenes  and  times  will  sometimes  come  back 
unbidden  and  unwished.  No  one  can  tell  why.  And 
now,  at  11.25  P.  M.,  when  I  have  gone  up  to  my  room 
far  away  from  home,  and  ought  to  go  to  bed,  that  hill 
will  not  go  away.  There  is  no  use  in  trying.  And 
nothing  can  be  more  certain  than  that  if  I  went  to  bed 
now,  I  should  toss  about  in  a  fever  till  4  or  5  A.  M. 
"Well,  as  a  smart  gallop  takes  the  nonsense  out  of  an  aged 
horse  which  has  shown  an  unwonted  friskness,  there  is 
something  which  will  quiet  this  present  writer's  pulse, 
and  it  shall  be  tried.  Come  out,  you  writing-case; 
come  forth,  the  foolscap,  the  ink-bottle,  the  little  quill 
that  has  written  many  pages.  And  now  you  may  come 
back  again  before  the  mind 's  eye,  purple  hill,  not  seen 
for  years. 

I  shut  my  eyes,  which  if  opened  would  behold  many 


110  ON  THE   FOREST  HILL: 

things  not  needful  to  be  noted,  and  then  the  scene  arises. 
In  actual  fact,  the  writer  is  surrounded  by  the  usual 
furniture  of  a  bedroom  in  a  great  railway  hotel  in  a 
certain  ancient  city ;  and  occasional  thundering  sounds, 
and  awful  piercing  screeches,  speak  of  arriving  and 
departing  trains  somewhat  too  near.  I  have  walked 
round  the  city  upon  the  wall ;  and  reaching  a  certain 
spot  I  sat  down  in  the  summer  twilight,  and  looked  for 
a  long  time  at  the  old  cathedral,  which  is  not  gray  with 
age ;  on  the  contrary,  it  is  red,  as  though  there  lingered 
about  its  crumbling  stones  the  sunsets  of  seven  hundred 
summers.  The  day  was,  as  we  learn  from  Bishop 
Blomfield's  Life,  wherein  to  be  the  chief  minister  of 
that  noble  church  was  esteemed  as  a  very  poor  prefer 
ment.  And  this  estimation  is  justified  by  the  statement 
**that  the  annual  revenue  of  the  bishop  was  not  so  very 
many  hundred  pounds.  But  who  shall  calculate  the 
money  value  of  the  privilege  of  living  in  this  quaint  old 
city,  whose  streets  carry  you  back  for  centuries;  and 
of  worshipping,  as  often  as  you  please,  under  that  sub 
lime  roof;  of  breathing  the  moral  atmosphere  of  the 
ancient  place ;  and  of  looking  from  its  walls  upon  those 
blue  hills  and  over  those  rich  plains  ?  Surely  one 
might  here  live  a  peaceful  life  of  worship,  thought,  and 
study,  amid  Gothic  walls  and  carved  oak  and  church 
music.  And  if  any  ordinary  man  should  declare  that 
he  could  not  be  content  with  all  this,  just  let  me  get 
him  by  the  ears.  Would  n't  I  shake  him  ! 

But  all  this  is  a  deviation.  And  if  there  is  anything 
on  which  the  writer  prides  himself,  it  is  the  severity 
of  his  logic.  You  will  not  find  in  his  pages  those 
desultory  and  wandering  passages  which  attract  the 


THOUGHTS  TOUCHING  DREAM-LIFE.  Ill 

unthinking  to  the  works  of  Archbishop  Whately  and 
Mr.  John  Stuart  Mill.  And  from  this  brief  excursion 
he  returns  to  the  severe  order  of  thought  which  is 
natural  to  him. 

I  shut  my  eyes,  as  has  been  already  remarked.  The 
railway  hotel,  the  thundering  trains,  and  the  yelling 
engines  vanish,  and  the  old  scene  arises.  It  is  a  bright 
autumn  afternoon.  The  air  is  very  still.  The  sun  is 
very  warm,  and  makes  the  swept  cornfields  gold 
en.  The  trees  are  crimson  and  brown,  and  crisped 
leaves  rustle  beneath  your  foot.  It  is  a  long  val 
ley,  with  hills  on  either  side,  and  a  river  flowing 
down  it.  A  path  winds  by  the  river  side,  through  the 
fields ;  and  there,  in  front,  is  the  purple  hill.  An 
Englishman  would  think  it  pretty  high.  It  is  more 
than  twelve  hundred  feet  in  height.  The  upper  part 
of  it  is  covered  with  heather.  It  rises  like  a  great 
pyramid,  closing  in  the  valley.  There  are  two  or  three 
little  farm-houses  half-way  up  it.  Above  these  it  is 
solitary  and  still. 

I  wonder,  this  evening,  being  so  far  away,  yet  with 
painful  distinctness  seeing  all  that,  whether  I  am  there 
in  fact  as  well  as  feeling  ?  Would  some  country  lad, 
returning  late  from  market,  discern  a  shadowy  figure 
walking  slowly  along  the  path,  and  bawl  out  and  run 
away,  recognizing  me  ? 

If  you  believe  various  recent  books,  you  will  under 
stand  that  when  you  think  very  intently  of  a  place  or 
person,  it  is  not  improbable  that  some  misty  eidolon  of 
yourself  is  present  to  the  person  or  at  the  place.  I  can 
not  say  that  I  think  this  fact  well  authenticated. 

I  walk  on,  not  in  the  summer  night,  but  in  the  au- 


112  ON  THE   FOEEST  HILL: 

tumn  afternoon.  I  want  to  climb  the  hill,  as  I  have 
done  so  often  in  departed  days.  So  I  lay  aside  the  pen, 
and  bend  down  my  head  on  my  hands. 

I  have  been  there,  if  ever  I  was  "in  my  life.  It  is  not 
every  day  one  can  sit  in  a  very  hard  easy-chair,  and 
take  such  a  walk,  nearly  two  hundred  miles  off. 

Through  the  long  grass,  with  a  dry  rustle  under  one's 
feet,  by  the  river's  side ;  up  through  a  little  wood  of 
firs,  till  the  highway  is  gained ;  over  a  one-arched 
bridge,  that  spans  a  little  rocky  gorge,  where  a  stream, 
smaller  than  the  river,  tumbles  over  a  shelf  of  rock, 
making  a  noisy  waterfall,  now  white  as  country  snow 
that  has  lain  but  a  night ;  up  a  steep  and  rough  road, 
with  birches  on  either  hand,  and  a  brook  flowing  down 
on  one  side,  that  brawls  in  rainy  weather,  but  only  mur 
murs  on  the  still  autumn  day ;  up  and  up  till  the  hedges 
give  place  to  walls  of  rude  stones,  built  without  mortar ; 
and  till  rough  slopes  of  heather  spread  away  on  either 
side ;  up  and  up  till  the  path  ceases,  and  you  sit  down 
on  a  great  bowlder  of  granite  in  the  lonely  bosom  of  the 
hill :  through  all  that  I  have  been.  A  long  way  below 
this,  but  a  longer  way  above  the  wooded  valley,  which 
you  now  see  in  its  whole  extent,  you  may  discern  the 
smoke  rising  from  a  farm-house,  screened  a  little  by  a 
clump  of  rather  scraggy  pines.  There  is  a  sick  man 
there,  —  an  aged  man  whom  I  go  to  see  frequently.  I 
went  to  the  farm-house  door,  a  black  and  white  dog 
barking  furiously ;  there  a  pleasant,  comely,  young  face 
welcomed  me.  I  went  in  and  found  my  old  friend  sit 
ting  by  his  warm  fireside,  which  was,  indeed,  a  great 
deal  too  warm  for  any  one  who  had  been  striving  up 


THOUGHTS  TOUCHING  DREAM-LIFE.  113 

that  stiff  ascent.  I  saw  his  face  and  heard  his  voice, 
though  he  has  been  dead  for  years.  I  saw  the  sheep 
feeding  on  the  hill  around ;  I  heard  a  cart  passing  nois 
ily  along  a  road  far  below ;  I  saw  the  long  gleam  of  the 
river,  down  in  the  valley,  and  the  horizon  of  encircling 
hills :  saw  and  heard  all  these  things  as  really  as  though 
they  had  been  present.  Memory  is  certainly  a  most 
wonderful  thing.  It  is  very  capricious.  Sometimes  it 
recalls  things  very  faintly  and  dimly ;  sometimes,  with  a 
vividness  that  makes  one  start.  Can  it  be  so  long  ago ! 
And  it  selects  in  a  very  arbitrary  fashion  what  it  will 
choose  to  remember.  The  faces  and  voices  we  would 
most  desire  to  recall,  it  allows  to  fade  away  ;  and  scenes 
and  people  we  did  not  particularly  care  for,  it  now  and 
then  sets  before  us  with  this  strange  vividness  of  force 
and  color.  I  did  not  cherish  any  special  regard  for  the 
old  farmer ;  and  the  walk  up  the  hill  was  not  a  very 
great  favorite.  Yet  to-night  something  took  me  by  the 
collar  and  walked  me  up  that  path,  and  set  me  down 
beside  the  old  man's  chair. 

I  have  come  back.  It  has  exorcised  the  hill,  to  write 
all  this  about  it.  I  had  an  eerie  feeling,  like  that  which 
De  Quincey  tells  he  had  for  many  nights  about  the 
Malay  to  whom  he  gave  the  great  piece  of  opium.  But 
now  the  hill  is  appeased.  All  these  odd,  inexplicable 
states  of  thought  and  feeling  are  transitory.  And  it  is 
much  better  that  they  should  be  so.  Hard  work  crowds 
them  out :  it  is  only  in  comparative  leisure  they  come  at 
all. 

But  we  are  not  to  suppose  that  only  weak  and  fanciful 
persons  know  by  experience  these  mental  phenomena. 


114  OS   THE  FOREST  HILL: 

What  may  be  called  Dream-life  (that  is,  spending  some 
part  of  one's  time  in  an  imaginary  world),  is  a  thing  in 
which  some  of  the  hardest-headed  of  human  beings 
have  had  their  share.  And  tliis  little  walk  which  the 
writer  has  had  to-night  in  a  place  far  away,  and  as  upon  a, 
day  that  is  left  far  behind,  helps  him  to  understand  some 
of  those  singular  things  which  are  recorded  of  the  extent 
to  which  many  men  have  spent  their  time  in  castles  in 
the  air,  and  of  the  persistency  with  which  they  have 
dwelt  there,  to  the  forgetfulness  of  more  tangible  inter 
ests.  If  ever  there  was  a  man  who  was  not  a  morbid 
day-dreamer,  it  was  Sir  James  Mackintosh.  Sir  James 
Mackintosh  was  known  to  mankind  in  general  as  an 
acute  metaphysician,  a  forcible  political  writer,  a  brilliant 
talker.  The  greatest  place  he  ever  held,  to  the  common 
eye,  was  that  of  Recorder  of  Bombay.  And  he  held 
that  place  just  the  shortest  time  he  possibly  could  to 
earn  his  pension.  How  many  men  knew,  looking  at  the 
homely  Scotchman,  what  his  true  place  in  life  was  ?  Had 
he  not  told  us  himself,  we  should  hardly  have  believed 
it.  He  was  Emperor  of  Constantinople  !  And  a  labo 
rious  and  anxious  position  he  found  it.  He  (mentally) 
promoted  many  of  his  friends  to  important  offices  of 
state  ;  and  his  friends  by  their  indiscretion  and  incom 
petence  caused  him  an  immense  deal  of  trouble.  Then 
the  empire  was  always  getting  involved  in  the  most 
vexatious  complications,  which  seriously  affected  the 
emperor's  sleep  and  general  health.  He  always  felt  like 
a  man  playing  a  very  intricate  game  of  chess.  No 
wonder  he  was  sometimes  very  absent  and  distracted. 
You  would  say  he  might  have  escaped  all  this  by  re 
signing  his  crown;  but  he  could  not  arrange  satisfao 


THOUGHTS  TOUCHING  DREAM-LIFE.  115 

torily  to  do  that.  A  thoughtless  person  smiles  at  these 
things  ;  but  to  Mackintosh  they  were  among  the  most 
serious  things  of  his  life.  A  man  of  bread-and-butter 
understanding  would  explain  it  by  saying  that  Mackin 
tosh  was  cracked ;  but  then  we  all  know  that  he  was 
not  cracked:  Yet  in  his  disengaged  hours,  regularly  as 
they  came,  was  the  thread  of  his  history  taken  up  where 
it  had  been  dropped  last  time  ;  and  he  was  the  emperor, 
laden  with  an  emperor's  cares.  It  was  not,  as  with  the 
actor  Elliston,  received  with  great  applause  on  the  stage 
at  Drury  Lane,  and  fancying  himself  a  king  just  long 
enough  to  bestow  a  blessing  upon  the  audience,  till  he 
was  pulled  up  by  a  burst  of  laughter.  Nor  was  it  like 
Alexander  the  Great,  according  to  Dryden,  who  "  as 
sumed  the  god  "  for  only  a  very  limited  period.  Neither 
was  the  astute  philosopher's  notion  of  an  emperor  the 
childish  one.  He  was  not  emperor,  to  sit  on  a  throne 
and  receive  homage  and  make  a  grand  appearance  on 
'  grand  occasions,  but  to  go  through  intricate  calculations 
and  hard  work,  and  to  undergo  great  anxiety. 

In  short,  Sir  James  Mackintosh,  being  a  great  man, 
indulged  in  dream-life  on  a  great  scale.  But  common 
place  human  beings  do  it  in  a  way  that  suits  themselves 
and  their  moderate  aspirations.  The  poor  consumptive 
girl,  who,  on  a  dark  December  evening,  is  propped  up 
with  pillows,  and  gets  you  to  sit  beside  her  while  she 
tells  you  how  much  stronger  and  better  she  feels,  how 
by  spring  she  will  be  quite  well  again,  and  how  delight 
ful  the  long  walks  will  be  in  the  summer  evenings,  while 
you  know  she  will  never  see  the  black-thorn  in  blossom, 
nor  the  green  leaves  on  the  tree :  she  is  doing  just  what 
the  great  metaphysician  used  to  do.  And  the  little 


116  ON   THE  FOREST   HILL: 

schoolboy,  far  away  from  home,  a  thoughtful,  bullied 
little  fellow,  does  it  too,  when  he  pictures  out  the  next 
holiday-time,  and  his  getting  away  from  all  this  to  be 
with  those  who  care  for  him.  Possibly  more  people 
than  you  would  think  make  up  for  the  dulness  of  their 
actual  life  in  some  such  way.  They  take  pleasure  in 
fancying  what  they  would  like  in  their  vacant  hours. 
And  unless  you  wish  your  mind  to  become  very  small 
and  dry,  you  will  have  such  hours.  No  matter  how 
hard-worked  you  may  be,  they  are  attainable.  You  re 
member  what  Charles  Lamb  once  wrote  to  a  friend: 
"  If  you  have  but  five  consolatory  minutes  between  the 
desk  and  the  bed,  make  much  of  them,  and  live  a  cen 
tury  in  them."  Human  beings,  living  even  the  most 
prosaic  lives,  have  sometimes  their  enchanted  palace, 
and  live  in  it  a  great  deal.  Have  you  not  sometimes, 
my  reader,  pictured  out  the  life  you  would  like,  not  in 
the  least  expecting  it,  or  even  really  wishing  it,  any 
more  than  Mackintosh  really  looked  to  be  made  Empe 
ror  of  Constantinople  ?  And  when  you  have  set  your 
heart  on  something  happening,  which  is  very  likely  not 
to  happen,  it  is  quite  right  to  please  yourself  by  pictur 
ing  out  the  best :  all  the  more  that  this  is  all  the  enjoy 
ment  of  it  you  are  likely  to  have.  If  we  have  all  suf 
fered  a  great  deal  of  pain  through  the  anticipation  of 
evils  which  never  came,  we  have  all  probably  enjoyed 
a  great  deal  of  pleasure  through  the  anticipation  of 
pleasant  things  which  were  never  to  be.  We  have  lived 
a  good  deal  in  castles  which  were  never  to  be  built,  but 
in  the  air.  When  we  tried  for  something  we  did  not 
get,  you  remember  well  how  we  used,  in  vacant  hours, 
to  plan  out  all  the  mode  of  life,  even  to  its  minute  de- 


THOUGHTS  TOUCHING  DREAM-LIFE.  117 

tails ;  enjoying  it  only  the  more  keenly  through  the  in 
trusion  of  the  fear  that  only  in  this  airy  fashion  should 
we  ever  lead  that  life  which  we  should  have  enjoyed  so 
much.  Of  course,  it  is  not  expedient  to  waste  in  dream 
ing  over  noble  plans  the  precious  hours  which  might 
have  gone  far  to  turn  our  dreams  into  serviceable  reali 
ties.  It  is  foolish  for  the  lad  at  college  to  spend,  in 
thinking  how  proud  his  parents  would  be,  and  how 
pleased  all  his  friends,  if  he  were  to  carry  off  all  the 
honors  that  were  to  be  had,  the  time  which,  if  devoted 
to  hard  work,  might  have  gained  at  least  some  of  those 
soon-forgotten  laurels.  It  may  be  said  here,  by  way  of 
parenthesis,  that  one  of  the  very  last  visions  in  which 
ambitious  youth  need  indulge  is  the  vision  of  being  re 
cognized  as  great  and  distinguished  in  the  place  of  your 
birth  or  your  early  days.  A  prophet  has  no  honor  in 
his  own  country.  I  have  a  friend,  greatly  revered,  who 
expresses"  an  opposite  opinion.  He  maintains,  in  a 
charming  volume,  that  if  you  rise  to  decent  eminence 
in  life,  the  people  who  knew  you  as  a  boy  will  be  proud 
of  you,  and  will  help  to  push  you  on  farther.  "  I  see, 
with  my  mind's  eye,"  says  my  friend,  "  a  statue  of 
Dunsford,  erected  in  Tollerporcorum."  Dunsford  was 
a  native  of  Tollerporcorum ;  and  having  recorded  the 
conversation  of  his  Friends  in  Council,  would  probably 
be  thus  distinguished.  There  are  portions  of  this  earth 
where  the  fact  is  just  the  contrary.  Tollerporcorum  is 
just  the  last  place  where  certain  Dunsfords  I  know  are 
likely  to  have  a  statue.  Dunsford's  early  acquaintances 
cannot  bear  the  moderate  success  which  has  attended 
Dunsford  in  life ;  they  regard  Friends  in  Council  as  a 
very  poor  work ;  and  a  college  acquaintance,  who  never 


118  ON  THE  FOREST  HILL: 

forgave  Dunsford  the  medals  he  won  there,  now  and 
then  abuses  Dunsford  in  the  Tollerporcorum  newspaper. 
I  lately  visited  a  certain  Tollerporcorum,  —  an  ancient 
town  in  a  fair  tract  of  country.  That  Tollerporcorum 
had  its  Dunsford.  Dunsford  started  from  small  begin 
nings,  'but  gradually  rose  about  as  high  as  a  human 
being  well  can  in  a  certain  portion  of  Scandinavia.  But 
the  fashionable  and  intellectual  thing  in  Tollerporco 
rum  was  to  ignore  Dunsford  and  his  career  altogether. 
Nobody  cared  about  him  or  it.  Dunsford  sometimes 
went  back  to  Tollerporcorum ;  and  the  Tollerporcorum 
people  diligently  shut  their  eyes  to  his  existence.  Every 
envious  little  wretch  who  had  stuck  in  the  mud  thus 
avenged  himself  on  Dunsford  for  having  got  on  so  far. 
In  the  latter  years  of  his  honored  life,  Dunsford  hardly 
ever  visited  Tollerporcorum ;  and  when  the  great  man 
died,  it  was  never  proposed  at  Tollerporcorum  to  erect 
so  much  as  a  drinking-fountain  to  his  memory. 

Here  ends  the  parenthesis.  Take  up  the  broken 
thread  of  thought.  It  is  right  and  pleasant  to  gain  at 
least  the  pleasure  of  anticipation  out  of  happy  things 
that  are  not  to  be.  And  when  you  see  a  sanguine  per 
son  in  a  state  of  great  enjoyment  through  such  anticipa 
tion,  you  will  not,  unless  you  have  in  you  the  spirit  of 
my  old  friend  Mr.  Snarling,  try  to  throw  a  damp  upon 
all  this  innocent  happiness  by  pointing  out,  with  great 
force  of  logic,  how  very  little  chance  there  is  of  the  an 
ticipation  being  realized.  That  is  only  the  stronger 
reason  for  enjoying  in  this  way  that  which  you  are  not 
likely  to  enjoy  in  any  other.  There  is  hardly  a  more 
touching  sight  than  the  sight  of  a  human  being,  old  or 
young,  happy  in  the  anticipation  of  any  pleasant  thing 


THOUGHTS  TOUCHING  DREAM-LIFE.  119 

which  he  will  never  reach.  With  what  a  rosy  face  and 
what  bright  eyes  your  little  boy  of  five  years  old  con 
fides  to  you  all  he  is  to  do  when  he  is  a  man  !  Great 
are  the  grandeur  and  fame  in  which  he  is  to  live,  many 
are  to  be  his  horses,  and  numerous  his  dogs ;  but  a  great 
feature  in  his  plan  always  is,  how  happy  he  is  to  make 
his  father  and  mother.  Ah  !  little  man,  before  those 
days  come  your  father  and  mother  will  be  far  away. 

And  a  reason  why  a  wise  man,  desirous  to  economize 
the  enjoyment  there  is  in  this  life,  and  to  make  it  go  as 
far  as  possible,  will  often  quietly  luxuriate  in  the  pros 
pect  of  what  he  secretly  knows  is  not  likely  to  happen, 
is  this  certain  fact,  that  in  this  world  the  thing  you 
would  like  best  is  the  thing  you  are  least  likely  to  get. 
That  is  a  fact  which,  as  we  get  on  through  life,  we  come 
to  know  extremely  well.  Yes,  if  you  set  your  heart  on 
a  thing,  whoever  gets  it,  you  won't.  You  may  get  some 
thing  else,  perhaps  something  better,  but  not  that.  If 
you  have  such  an  enthusiasm  for  Gothic  architecture 
that  you  sometimes  think  no  one  could  enjoy  it  so  much, 
if  you  feel  that  it  would  sensibly  flavor  all  your  life  to 
live  in  a  Gothic  house  or  to  worship  in  a  Gothic 
church,  then,  though  everything  else  about  them  be 
all  you  could  wish,  rely  on  it,  your  church  and  house 
will  be  Palladian.  And  you  will  often  meet  men  whose 
belongings  are  Gothic,  who  tell  you  they  are  very  beau 
tiful,  very  uncomfortable,  that  the  church  is  destroying 
their  lungs,  and  thjs  house  giving  them  perpetual  cold  in 
their  heads,  and  who  greatly  envy  you.  Of  course, 
all  this  is  gratifying,  to  a  certain  degree.  It  serves  to 
make  you  content. 

I  have  known  a  man  who  lived  in  a  house  which  was 


120  ON  THE  FOREST   HILL: 

extremely  comfortable,  and  extremely  ugly.  No  one 
could  ever  say  to  what  school  of  architecture,  in  par 
ticular,  his  residence  was  to  be  referred.  And  the 
country  round  was  very  ugly  and  bare.  But,  like  the 
farmer  in  Virgil,  in  that  exquisite  passage  in  one  of 
the  Georgics,  regum  cequabat  opes  animo ;  he  could 
picture  out,  at  will,  a  charming  English  manor-house, 
of  hospitable-looking  red  brick  with  stone  dressings  ; 
oriel-windowed,  steep-gabled,  with  great  wreathed  chim 
neys,  with  environing  terraces,  with  magnificent  horse- 
chestnuts  ever  blazing  in  the  glory  of  June.  You 
thought  he  was  walking  a  bleak  moorland  road,  dreary 
and  dismal;  but  in  truth  the  warm  breeze  was 
shaking  the  blossoms  overhead,  and  making  a  chequered 
dancing  shade  on  soft  green  turf  below.  And  there 
yearly  comes  a  certain  season,  when  very  many  human 
beings  practise  on  themselves  a  delusion  something  like 
his.  I  mean  Christmas-time.  Who  ever  spent  the 
ideal  Christmas  ?  I  should  like  very  greatly  to  behold 
that  person.  I  have  never  done  so  yet :  never  spent  a 
Christmas  in  all  my  life  in  the  ideal  way.  You  ought 
to  be  living  in  a  noble  Gothic  house,  somewhere  in  the 
midland  counties  of  England.  There  ought  to  be  a 
large  and  gay  party,  spending  the '  holidays  there. 
There  ought  to  be  an  exquisite  old  church  near.  There 
ought  to  be  bracing  frost,  and  cheerful  snow.  All  hearts 
should  seem  touched  and  warmed  by  the  sacred  asso 
ciations  of  the  season.  There  should  be  an  oaken  hall, 
and  a  vast  wood-fire  ;  holly  and  mistletoe  ;  and  of  course 
roast  beef  and  plum-pudding  and  strong  ale  for  every 
poor  person  near.  You  should  be  living,  in  short,  at 
Bracebridge  Hall,  exactly  as  it  was  when  Washington 


THOUGHTS   TOUCHING  DREAM-LIFE.  121 

Irving  described  it,  and  with  all  the  same  people.  It 
need  not  be  said  that  in  fact  the  Christmas  time  and 
its  surroundings  are  quite  different  from  all  this.  You 
sit  down  by  yourself,  and  try  to  get  up  the  feeling  of 
the  time  by  reading  Washington  Irving  and  Mr.  Dickens's 
Christmas  Carol.  The  Illustrated  London  News  is  a 
great  help  to  ordinary  imaginations  at  that  season. 
On  the  actual  Christmas-day,  rainy,  muddy,  tooth- 
aching,  ill-tempered,  you  turn  over  the  pictures  in  that 
excellent  journal  ;  and  you  find  the  ideal  Christmas 
there.  My  friend  Smith  once  told  how  he  spent  his 
first  Christmas-day  in  his  little  country  parsonage. 
Luckily  there  was  snow.  He  provided  that  his  ser 
vants,  three  in  number,  should  have  the  means  of  a  little 
enjoyment.  He  worked  hard  all  the  forenoon  writing 
a  sermon,  whose  subject  was  not  the  Nativity.  And 
for  an  hour  before  dinner  he  walked  alone,  up  and  down 
a  little  gravelled  walk  with  evergreens  on  each  side, 
looking  at  the  leaden  sky  and  the  solitary  fields,  and 
trying  to  feel  as  if  he  were  at  Bracebridge  Hall.  He 
tried  with  small  success.  Then,  having  dined  in  soli 
tude  on  turkey  and  plum-pudding,  he  read  the  pleasant 
Christmas  chapter  in  Pickwick,  and  tried  to  get  up  an 
enthusiasm  about  the  enjoyment  which,  for  the  sake  of 
argument,  might  be  conceived  as  existing  in  many 
houses  that  night.  Finally,  he  concluded  that  he  was 
unsuccessfully  trying  to  humbug  himself,  and  ended  by 
reading  Butler's  Analogy  in  a  good  deal  of  bitterness  of 
heart. 

Very  early  in  our  intelligent  life,  our  personality  be 
gins  to  cut  us  off  from  those  nearest  us.  Unless  a  pa 
rent  have  a  much  deeper  insight  and  sympathy  than 


122  ON  THE  FOREST  HILL: 

most  parents  have,  he  loses  knowledge  very  early  of 
the  real  inward  life  of  his  children.  At  first,  it  is  like 
wading  in  shallow  water ;  but  it  is  not  long  till  it  shelves 
down  into  depths  beyond  your  diving.  The  little 
thoughtful  face  you  see  every  day;  the  little  heart 
within  you  know  just  as  much  as  you  know  the  outer 
side  of  the  moon.  No  doubt,  if  this  be  so,  it  is  in  a 
great  measure  your  own  fault.  There  are  many  parents 
to  whom  their  children,  young  or  old,  would  no  more 
confide  the  things  they  really  care  for  and  think  about 
than  they  would  confide  these  to  the  first  cabman  at  the 
next  stand.-  But  beyond  this,  the  little  things  soon 
begin  to  have  a  world  of  their  own,  not  known  to  any 
but  themselves.  You  may  have  known  young  children 
who  wearied  for  the  hour  when  they  might  get  to  bed, 
and  begin  to  think  again  ;  take  up  the  history  where 
they  left  it  off  last  night.  Of  course,  the  history  and 
the  world  were  very  different  from  the  fact.  Kings  and 
queens,  heroes  and  giants,  elves  and  fairies,  palaces  and 
castles,  these  being  oftentimes  enchanted,  were  common 
there.  Also  clear  views  of  the  kind  of  life  they  would  live 
when  they  grew  up ;  a  life  in  which  coaches  and  six, 
suits  of  armor,  and  the  like,  were  not  unknown. 

It  is  a  mercy  for  some  people,  that  circumstances 
keep  them  down.  Their  lot  circumscribes  their  oppor 
tunity  of  making  fools  of  themselves.  My  friend  Smith, 
already  named,  is  a  clergyman.  His  church  is  a  plain 
one.  Such  is  his  craze  for  Gothic  architecture,  that  I 
tremble  to  think  what  would  have  become  of  him.  if  he 
had  chanced  to  attain  a  magnificent  church  dating  from 
the  eleventh  century,  —  a  church  with  stately  ranks  of 
shafts,  echoing  aisles,  storied  window,  crusaders'  statues, 


THOUGHTS  TOUCHING  DREAM-LIFE.  123 

rich  oak  carving,  and  monumental  brasses,  standing 
amid  grand  old  trees.  I  fear  he  would  have  spent  great 
part  of  his  time  in  admiring  and  enjoying  the  structure  ; 
in  sitting  on  a  gravestone  outside  and  looking  at  it ; 
in  walking  up  and  down  inside  it,  and  the  like.  It 
would  have  been  a  great  feature  in  his  life.  It  is  much 
safer  and  better  that  he  has  been  spared  that  temptation. 
The  grand  building,  of  course,  has  fallen  to  somebody 
who  does  not  care  for  it  at  all.  In  a  former  age,  there 
was  a  barrister  who  would  have  keenly  enjoyed  being 
made  a  judge.  Probably  no  man  ever  made  a  judge 
would  have  delighted  so  much  in  the  little  accessories 
of  that  eminent  position,  —  the  curious  garb,  and  the 
varied  dignity  wherewith  the  administrators  of  the  law 
are  surrounded.  How  tremendously  set  up  he  would 
have  been,  if  he  could  once  have  sentenced  a  man  to  be 
hanged !  The  writer  was  present  when  the  name  of 
that  person  was  suggested  to  an  individual  who  could 
have  made  him  what  he  wished  to  be.  That  individual 
was  asked  whether  he  might  not  do*.  That  individual 
did  not  open  his  lips,  but  he  shook  his  head  slowly 
from  side  to  side  several  times.  For  thus  goes  on  this 
world. 

Probably  most  human  beings,  now  and  then,  have 
short  glimpses  of  cheerfulness  and  light-heartedness, 
which  make  them  think  how  much  more  and  better 
might  be  made  of  this  life.  You  have  seen  a  charm 
ing  scene,  bathed  in  a  glorious  sunshine,  and  you  have 
thought,  Now,  it  might  always  be  like  this.  Sometimes 
there  comes  a  hopefulness  of  spirit,  in  which  all  difficul 
ties  and  perplexities  vanish ;  in  which  everything  seems 
delightful,  and  all  creatures  good.  This  is  the  potential 


124  ON   THE   FOREST  HILL: 

of  happiness  in  man.  Of  course,  it  is  seldom  reached, 
and  never  for  long.  Most  people  are  more  familiar 
with  the  converse  case,  in  which  everything  looks  dark 
and  amiss,  —  the  season  of  perplexity,  despondency,  de 
pression.  Probably  this  comes  many  times  more  fre 
quently  than  the  other.  Let  me  say,  my  reader,  that 
we  know  the  reason  why. 

The  truth  is,  it  is  not  needful  to  our  enjoyment  of 
many  things  that  we  should  fancy  any  connexion  be 
tween  ourselves  and  them.  You  read  a  pleasant  story, 
and  like  it,  without  fancying  yourself  its  hero  or  hero 
ine.  Never  in  your  life,  perhaps,  have  you  spent  a  week 
in  a  house  like  Bracebridge  Hall ;  and  you  are  never 
likely  to  do  that.  Yet  you  enjoy  the  sunshiny  volume ; 
and  you  thank  its  author  for  many  hours  of  quiet, 
thoughtful  enjoyment,  for  which  you  felt  the  better. 
And,  indeed,  much  of  what  is  pleasing  and  beautiful  you 
enjoy  most  when  you  never  think  of  it  in  relation  to 
yourself.  Take  the  most  pleasing  development  of  hu 
man  comeliness,  which  is  doubtless  in  the  case  of  young 
women.  Let  it  be  admitted  that  there  are  few  things 
more  pleasing  and  interesting  to  the  rightly-constituted 
mind  than  the  sight  of  sweet  girlish  faces  and  graceful 
girlish  forms,  and  the  tones  of  the  pleasant  voices  that 
generally  go  with  them.  But  there  is  no  doubt  earthly, 
that  in  grave  middle  age,  you  have  much  more  real 
pleasure  in  these  things  than  in  feverish  youth.  Let  us 
suppose,  my  reader,  that  you  are  a  man  in  years.  Those 
who  were  young  girls  in  your  day  are  middle-aged 
women  now :  they  are  past.  But  you  look  with  the 
kindest  interest  on  the  fair  young  faces  of  another  gen 
eration.  A  young  lad  is  eager  to  commend  himself  to 


THOUGHTS  TOUCHING  DREAM-LIFE.  125 

the  notice  and  admiration  of  these  agreeable  human  be 
ings.  He  is  filled  with  bitter  enmity  at  other  lads  more 
successful  than  himself  in  gaining  their  favor.  His 
whole  state  of  mind  in  the  circumstances  leads  him  into 
a  host  of  absurdities :  the  contemplative  mind  sees  him 
in  the  light  of  an  ass.  Now,  you  are  beyond  and  above 
all  these  things.  You  look  with  pure  pleasure  and  kind 
ness  at  the  fairest  beings  of  God's  creation;  and  you 
look  at  the  fair  sight  and  enjoy  it  as  you  look  at  Ben 
Lomond,  or  at  the  setting  sun,  without  the  faintest  wish 
to  make  it  your  own.  It  is  the  entire  absence  of  per 
sonal  interest  that  makes  your  interest  so  pleasant,  and 
so  unmingled  with  any  disagreeable  feeling.  I  remem 
ber  to  have  read,  in  a  religious  biography,  a  statement 
made  by  a  very  clever  and  good  man  about  a  certain 
beautiful  girl,  called  away  in  early  youth.  "I  found 
myself,"  he  said,  "  looking  at  her  with  an  interest  for 
which  I  could  not  account."  Was  that  unsophisticated 
simplicity  real?  Not  able  to  account  for  the  interest 
with  which  you  look  at  a  pleasant  sight!  I  think  it 
might  be  accounted  for.  Though  indeed  when  we  go  to 
first  principles,  we  get  beyond  the  reach  of  logical  ex 
planation.  In  strictness,  you  may  not  be  able  to  say 
why  the  tear  comes  to  your  eye  when  you  look  at  a 
number  of  little  children,  and  think  what  is  before  them. 
In  strictness,  you  may  not  be  able  to  say  why  it  was  that 
so  many  people  found  themselves  shedding  tears,  on  a 
day  in  Westminster  Abbey,  wheA  they  saw  the  Crown 
placed  on  the  head  of  a  certain  young  girl  who,  in  after 
years,  was  destined  to  gain  the  love  of  most  hearts  in 
Britain  as  the  best  of  Queens.  Yet  a  great  many 
thoughtful  persons  have  recorded  that  they  were  affected 


126  ON  THE  FOREST   HILL. 

alike  in  beholding  that  sight.     So  there  must  have  been 
something  in  the  sight  to  awaken  the  emotion. 

These  are  the  things  of  which  the  writer  thought  in 
the  circumstances  already  set  out.  Probably  it  has  made 
you  sleepy  to  read  all  this.  It  had  the  contrary  effect 
to  write  it ;  for  when  the  writer  at  length  wearily  sought 
his  couch,  he  could  not  sleep  at  all. 


CHAPTER    VIII. 

A    REMINISCENCE    OF    THE    OLD    TIME  :    BEING 
SOME   THOUGHTS   ON  GOING  AWAY. 


AM  sure  you  know  how,  as  we  advance  in 
life,  hours  come  in  which  we  feel  an  impulse 
to  sit  down  for  a  little,  and  try  to  revive  an 
old  feeling,  before  it  dies  away;  and  many 
of  our  old  feelings  are  dying  away,  and  will  ultimately 
die  out  altogether.  It  is  partly  through  use,  and  partly 
because  our  system,  physical  and  psychical,  is  growing 
less  sensitive  as  we  go  on.  We  do  not  feel  things  now  as 
we  used  to  do.  "We  are  getting  stronger,  the  robuster 
nerves  of  middle  age  do  not  receive  the  vivid  impres 
sions  of  earlier  years,  and  there  are  faintly-flavored 
things  which  they  cease  to  appreciate  at  all.  We  have 
come  out  from  the  green  fields,  and  from  the  shady 
woodlands,  and  we  are  plodding  along  the  beaten  high 
way  of  life.  It  is  the  noon  now,  jnot  perhaps  without 
some  tendency  to  decline  towards  evening ;  and  we  look 
back  to  the  dawn  and  to  the  morning,  when  the  air  was 
cool  arid  fresh,  and  when  the  sky  was  clear.  And  we 
have  grown  hardened  to  the  rougher  work  of  the  pres 
ent  time.  We  have  all  got  lines  pretty  deeply  drawn 
upon  our  faces,  and  a  good  many  gray  hairs.  And  if 


128  A  REMINISCENCE   OF 

one  could  see  a  middle-aged  soul,  no  doubt  you  would 
see  about  it  something  analogous  to  being  wrinkled  and 
gray.  No  doubt  you  would  likewise  discern  something 
analogous  to  the  thickening  and  toughening  of  the  skin 
in  the  case  of  the  middle-aged  hand.  Neither  hand  nor 
heart  feels  so  keenly. 

There  is  no  help  for  it,  but  still  one  cannot  help  re 
gretting  it,  the  way  in  which  things  lose  their  first  fresh 
relish  by  use.  We  ought  to  be  getting  more  enjoyment 
out  of  things  than  we  do.  A  host  of  very  small  mat 
ters,  which  we  pass  without  ever  noticing,  would  aiford 
us  real  and  sensible  pleasure  if  we  had  not  grown  so 
accustomed  to  them.  Prince  Lee  Boo,  as  we  used  to 
read,  was  moved  to  ecstatic  wonder  and  delight  by  the 
upright  walls  and  the  flat  ceiling  of  an  ordinary  room. 
They  were  new  to  him.  There  was  a  young  Indian 
chief,  many  years  ago,  who  came  from  the  Far  West  to 
London,  and  was  for  a  season  a  lion  in  fashionable 
society.  He  was  a  manly,  clever  young  fellow,  but  in 
his  English  months  he  never  got  over  his  unsophisti 
cated  enjoyment  of  the  furniture  of  English  houses. 
And  thoughtless  folk  despised  him,  when  they  ought 
rather  to  have  envied  him,  as  they  witnessed  his  delight 
in  the  contemplation  of  a  dinner-table  where  he  had 
been  accustomed  to  see  a  stretched  bull's  hide,  and  of 
plates,  knives  arid  forks,  carpets,  mirrors,  window-cur 
tains,  and  wash-hand  stands.  All  these  great  luxuries, 
and  a  thousand  more,  he  appreciated  at  their  true  value ; 
while  civilized  men  and  women,  through  familiarity, 
had  arrived  at  contempt  of  them.  Which  was  right, 
the  civilized  folk  or  the  savage  man  ?  Is  it  the  human 
being  who  sees  least  in  the  things  around  him  that 


THE  OLD  TIME.  129 

ought  to  be  proud,  or  is  not  the  man  rather  to  be  envied 
who  discerns  in  simple  matters  qualities  and  excellences 
which  others  do  not  discern  ?  If  you  had  so  worn  out 
your  eyes  by  constant  use  that  you  could  no  longer  see, 
that  would  be  nothing  to  plume  yourself  on  ;  you  would 
have  no  right  to  think  you  had  attained  a  position  of 
superiority  to  the  remainder  of  the  human  race,  in 
whom  the  optic  nerve  still  retained  its  sensitiveness. 
Yet  there  are  people  who  are  quite  proud  that  their 
mind  has  had  its  nerves  of  sensation  partially  paralyzed, 
and  who  would  like  you  to  think  that  those  nerves  are 
entirely  paralyzed.  "  I  don't  remark  these  things," 
they  will  say  with  an  air  of  disdain,  when  you  point  out 
to  them  some  of  the  little  material  advantages  which  we 
enjoy  in  this  country  now-a-days.  They  convey  that 
they  think  you  must  be  a  weak-minded  person  because 
you  do  remark  these  things,  because  you  still  feel  it  a 
curious  thing  to  leave  London  in  the  morning,  and  after 
ten  hours  and  a  half  of  unfatiguing  travelling  to  reach 
Edinburgh  in  the  evening ;  or  because  you  still  are  con 
scious  of  a  simple-minded  wonder  when  you  send  a  mes 
sage  five  hundred  miles,  and  get  your  answer  back  in  a 
quarter  of  an  hour.  If  there  be  a  mortal  whom  I  de 
spise,  it  is  the  man  who  is  anxious  to  impress  you  with 
the  fact  that  he  does  not  care  in  the  least  for  anything. 
The  human  being  who  is  proud  because  he  has  reached 
the  nil  admirari  stage  is  just  a  human  being  who  is 
proud  because  a  creeping  paralysis  has  numbed  his 
soul. 

Yet  without  giving  in  to  it,  and  without  being  proud 
of  it,  you  are  aware  that  the  keen  relish  goes  from  that 
which  you  grow  accustomed  to.     I  have  indeed  heard  it 
6*  i 


130  A  EEMJNISCENCE  OF 

Baid  concerning  certain  individuals  whose  supercilious 
and  lofty  air  testified  that  some  sudden  rise  in  life  had 
turned  their  head,  that  they  lived  in  a  state  of  constant 
surprise  at  finding  themselves  so  respectable.  But  this 
statement  was  not  true  in  its  full  extent.  For  after 
being  for  several  years  in  a  position  for  which  nature 
never  intended  him,  even  Dr.  Bumptious  (before  his 
elevation  his  name  was  Toady)  must  have  grown  to  a 
certain  measure  accustomed  to  it.  Even  other  people 
got  accustomed  to  it.  And  though  his  incompetence  for 
his  place  remained  just  as  glaring  as  ever,  they  ceased 
to  remark  it,  and  came  to  accept  it  as  something  in  the 
nature  of  things.  You  know,  we  do  not  perplex  our 
selves  by  inquiring  every  morning  why  there  are  such 
creatures  as  wasps,  toads,  and  rattlesnakes.  But  if 
these  beings  were  of  a  sudden  introduced  into  this  world 
for  the  first  time,  it  would  be  different. 

It  is  to  be  lamented  that  the  very  fresh  and  sensible 
enjoyment  which  we  derive  from  very  little  things,  when 
they  are  new  to  us,  passes  so  completely  away  when 
they  grow  familiar.  I  remark  that  my  fellow-creatures, 
who  inhabit  houses  in  this  street,  are  very  far  from  being 
duly  thankful  for  the  great  privilege  we  possess  in  hav 
ing  a  post-office  at  the  end  of  it.  You  write  your  let 
ters  in  the  forenoon  after  you  have  completed  your  more 
serious  work,  and  upon  each  envelope  you  stick  the  rep 
resentation  of  a  face  which  is  very  familiar  to  us  all, 
and  very  dear.  If  you  are  a  wise  man,  you  post  your 
letters  for  yourself;  and  accordingly  the  first  thing  you 
do  daily,  when  you  go  forth  to  your  out-door  business  or 
duty,  is  to  proceed  to  that  little  opening  which  receives 
the  expression  of  so  much  care,  so  much  kindness,  so 


THE  OLD  TIME.  131 

much  worry,  so  much  joy  and  sorrow,  and  to  drop  the 
documents  in.  Not  many  of  the  human  beings  who  post 
letters  and  who  receive  them  have  any  habitual  sense  of 
the  supreme  luxury  they  enjoy  in  that  familiar  institu 
tion  of  the  post-office.  Into  that  little  opening  goes 
your  letter ;  a  penny  secures  its  admission,  and  obtains 
for  it  very  distinguished  consideration;  and  in  a  little 
while  the  most  ingenious  mechanism  that  has  been  de 
vised  by  the  most  ingenious  minds  is  hard  at  work  con 
veying  your  letter,  at  tremendous  speed,  by  land  or  sea ; 
till  next  morning,  unerring  as  the  eagle  upon  its  eyrie, 
it  swoops  down  upon  the  precise  dwelling  at  which  you 
aimed  it.  When  I  say  it  swoops  down  upon  a  dwelling 
in  the  country,  I  mean  to  express  poetically  the  fact 
that  it  comes  jogging  along  in  a  cart  drawn  by  a  little 
white  pony,  which  stops  for  the  purposes  of  conversation 
whenever  it  meets  anybody  in  the  wooded  lane  I  have 
in  my  mind.  But  in  saying  that  the  inhabitants  of  this 
street  are  not  duly  thankful  for  the  post-office  at  the  cor 
ner,  I  did  not  mean  merely  that  they  fail  to  understand 
what  a  blessing  to  Britain  the  system  of  postal  commu 
nication  is.  Everybody,  on  ordinary  days,  fails  to  un 
derstand  that.  I  was  thinking  of  something  else.  I 
was  thinking  of  the  luxury  of  having  a  receiving-house 
so  near.  When  I  lived  in  the  country,  the  post-office 
was  five  miles  distant ;  and  if  you  missed  the  chance  of 
sending  away  your  letters  in  the  morning  by  the  cart 
drawn  by  the  white  pony,  you  must  wait  till  next  day, 
or  you  must  send  a  special  messenger  to  the  old-fash 
ioned  town  of  red  freestone  dwellings,  standing  by  a 
classic  river's  side.  Let  not  that  town  be  mentioned 
save  in  complimentary  terms.  Let  me  learn  by  the 


132  A  REMINISCENCE  OF 

misfortune  of  another.  An  eminent  native  of  the  dis 
trict  which  surrounds  it,  known  in  the  world  of  letters, 
once  upon  a  time  published  some  remarks  upon  that 
town,  disguising  its  pretty  name  in  another  of  somewhat 
ludicrous  sound.  And  when  that  eminent  man  shortly 
afterwards  strove  to  persuade  the  inhabitants  to  send 
him  to  represent  them  in  Parliament,  the  old  offence 
was  raked  up,  and  it  did  him  harm.  This,  however,  is 
a  digression.  Let  us  return.  When  I  came  from  the 
country,  to  live  in  this  city,  I  felt  it  a  great  privilege, 
and  something  to  be  enjoyed  freshly  every  time,  to  take 
my  letters  to  the  post-office,  two  hundred  yards  off.  It 
was  delightful.  Not  once  in  the  day,  but  (if  need  were) 
half  a  dozen  times,  could  you  write  your  letter,  and  in 
three  minutes  have  it  in  the  post-office.  There  was 
something  very  fresh  and  enjoyable  in  the  reflection,  as 
you  stood  by  the  receiving-house  window,  Now  here  in 
these  minutes  I  am  in  the  same  position  in  which  half 
an  hour's  smart  driving,  or  an  hour  and  a  quarter's 
steady  walking,  would  have  placed  one  in  departed 
days !  Wonderful !  But  now,  after  several  years  of 
the  enjoyment  of  this  privilege,  the  fresh  wonder  has 
worn  away.  The  edge  of  enjoyment  is  dulled.  Ai^d 
though  I  try  hard,  in  going  to  the  post-office,  to  feel 
what  a  blessing  it  is,  I  cannot  feel  it  as  I  would  wish. 
Yes,  the  enjoyment  of  the  post-office  is  gone  in  great 
measure  ;  even  as  the  unutterable  greenness  discerned 
by  the  stranger  goes  from  the  summer  trees  among 
which  you  have  come  to  feel  yourself  at  home ;  even  as 
the  sound  of  Niagara  becomes  inaudible  to  the  waiters 
at  the  Niagara  Hotel;  even  as  the  bishop  who  was 
plucked  at  college  gradually  ceases  to  be  astonished  at 


THE  OLD  TKlE,  133 

finding  himself  a  bishop ;  even  as  Miss  Sniiil«*in  a  few 
weeks  after  she  is  married,  no  longer  feels  it  strange  to 
be  called  Mrs.  Jones  ;  even  as  the  readers  of  what  is 
with  bitter  irony  called  a  religious  newspaper  lose  their 
first  bewilderment  at  finding  a  human  animal  writing  an 
article  filled  with  intentional  misrepresentation,  lying, 
and  slandering,  and  ending  the  article  by  taking  God  to 
witness  that  in  abusing  the  man  he  hates  for  his  success 
and  eminence,  he  is  actuated  by  a  simple  regard  to  the 
Divine  glory. 

And  thus  it  is,  remembering  how  the  old  time  and  the 
old  way  fade  out,  that  the  writer  has  resolved  to  give  a 
little  space  of  comparative  rest  to  reviving  (as  far  as 
may  be)  something  vvMrh  used  to  have  a  strongs-Mi" 
character  of  its  own  in  years  v?hich  are  goney^nd  which 
are  melting  into  blue  distance  fast.  Let  me  seek  to 
bring  up  again  the  atmosphere  of  Going  Away,  as  it 
used  to  be,  and  to  be  felt.  No  doubt  there  is  a  certain 
fancifulness  about  moral  atmospheres ;  not  all  men  feel 
them  alike ;  and  there  are  robust  natures  which  probably 
do  not  feel  them  at  all.  When  a  man  comes  to  describe 
a  house,  a  landscape,  a  mode  of  life,  not  as  these  are  in 
literal  fact,  but  as  these  impress  himself,  then  we  get 
into  a  realm  of  uncertainty  and  fancy.  When  a  man 
ceases  to  say  of  a  dwelling  that  it  is  built  of  red  brick, 
that  it  has  so  many  windows  in  front,  that  it  is  so  many 
stories  high,  that  it  has  evergreens  of  such  kinds  round 
it,  and  the  like  ;  and  when  the  man  goes  on  to  describe 
the  house  by  quite  other  characteristics,  —  saying  that  it. 
is  a  sleepy-looking  house,  a  dull  house,  a  hospitable- 
looking  house,  an  eerie  strange-looking  house,  a  house 
that  makes  you  feel  queer,  —  then  you  feel  that  though 


134  A  REMINISCENCE  OF 

vOs 
the  mkn  n»arj  csnvey  to  another  man,  who  is  in  sympathy 

with  himself,  a  very  true  impression  of  the  fact  as  it 
presents  itself  to  him,  still  there  are  many  people  to 
whom  such  descriptions  are  really  quite  unintelligible  ; 
and  that  those  who  are  most  capable  of  understanding 
them  are  least  likely  to  agree  as  to  their  truth.  It  is  so 
with  what  I  have  called  moral  atmospheres  ;  the  per 
vading  characteristic  of  a  time,  a  scene,  a  way  of  life,  a 
human  being.  Nor  can  it  be  admitted  that  there  is  any 
thing  of  morbid  sensitiveness  in  being  keenly  aware  of 
these.  Most  people  know  the  vague  sort  of  sense  that 
you  have  of  being  in  a  remote  pastoral  country,  or  of 
being  in  a  busy  town.  You  feel  a  difference  in  the 
ml^si^r  -whenever  you  awake,  anoj  before  you  have  fully 
gathered  up  your  consciousness  ;  it  pervades  your  very 
dreams.  You  remember  periods  of  your  life  about 
"which  there  was  a  kind  of  flavor ;  strongly  felt,  but  in 
describable  to  others ;  not  to  be  expressed  in  any  spoken 
words  ;  Mendelssohn  or  Beethoven  might  have  come 
near  expressing  it  in  music ;  and  it  comes  back  upon 
you  in  reading  some  passage  in  In  Memoriam  which  has 
nothing  to  do  with  it,  or  in  looking  at  the  first  yellow  cro- 
cas  in  the  cold  March  sunshine,  or  in  walking  along  a 
lane  with  blossoming  hawthorn  on  either  hand,  or  in 
smelling  the  blossoms  of  an  apple-tree.  And  when  you 
look  back,  you  feel  the  atmosphere  surround  you  again 
with  its  fragrance  a  good  deal  gone,  and  with  its  colors 
faded.  It  is  a  misty,  ghost-like  image  of  a  past  life  and 
its  surroundings  that  steals  vaguely  before  your  mental 
sight  ;  and  possibly  it  cannot  be  more  accurately  or 
expressively  described  than  by  saying  that  the  old  time 
comes  over  you. 


THE  OLD  TIME.  135 

Doubtless  external  scenery  has  a  great  deal  to  do  in 
the  production  of  that  general  sense  of  a  character  per 
vading  one's  whole  mode  of  life,  which  I  menu  by  a 
moral  atmosphere.  It  is  especially  so  if  you  lead  a 
lonely  life,  or  if  you  have  not  many  companions,  and 
these  not  very  energetic  or  striking.  How  well  many 
men  in  orders  remember  the  peculiar  flavor  of  the  time 
when  they  first  began  their  parochial  duty !  Years  af 
terwards,  you  go  and  walk  up  and  down  in  the  church 
where  you  preached  your  first  sermons,  and  you  try  to 
awaken  the  feeling  of  that  departed  time.  It  comes 
back  in  a  ghostly,  unsubstantial  way ;  sometimes  it  re 
fuses  to  be  wakened  up  at  all.  And  the  feeling,  what 
ever  it  may  be,  is  (to  many  men)  very  mainly  flavored 
by  the  outward  scene  in  which  that  time  was  spent.  I 
can  easily  believe  that  there  are  persons  on  whose  mood 
and  character  no  appreciable  impression  is  produced  by 
external  scenery  :  probably  the  reader  knows  pne  or  two. 
They  have  usually  high  cheek-bones,  smoke-dried  com 
plexions,  and  disagreeable  voices  ;  they  think  Mr.  Ten 
nyson  a  fool,  and  tell  you  that  they  cannot  understand 
him,  in  a  tone  that  conveys  that  in  their  judgment  no 
body  can.  I  have  known  men  who  declared  honestly 
that  they  did  not  think  Westminster  Abbey  in  the  least 
a  more  solemn  place  than  a  red  brick  meeting-house  with 
a  flat  ceiling,  and  with  its  inner  walls  chastely  white 
washed,  or  papered  with  a  paper  representing  yellow 
marble.  My  acquaintance  with  such  individuals  was 
slight,  and  by  mutual  consent  it  speedily  ceased.  Give 
us  the  man  who  frankly  tells  you  how  different  a  man 
he  is  in  this  place  from  what  he  is  in  that,  how  outward 
nature  casts  its  light  or  its  shadow  upon  all  his  thinking 


136  A  REMINISCENCE  OF 

and  feeling.  What  would  you  be,  my  friend,  if  you  lived 
for  months  by  a  misty  Shetland  sea,  or  amid  a  wild  Irish 
bogland,  or  in  a  wooden  chalet  at  Meyringen,  or  on  a  flat 
French  plain,  with  white  ribbons  of  highway  stretching 
across  it,  bordered  with  weary  poplars;  or  under  the 
shadow  of  castle-crowned  crags  upon  the  Rhine,  or  amid 
the  bustle  of  a  great  commercial  town,  or  in  the  classic 
air  of  an  ancient  university  city,  with  a  feast  of  Gothic 
everywhere  for  the  eyes,  and  with  courts  of  velvety  turf 
that  has  been  velvety  turf  for  ages  ?  But  here  I  get 
into  the  region  of  the  fanciful ;  and  though  holding  very 
strongly  a  certain  theory  about  these  things,  I  am  not 
going  to  set  it  out  here.  Yet  I  cannot  but  believe  that, 
when  you  read  men's  written  thoughts,  you  may  readily, 
if  you  be  of  a  sensitive  nature,  feel  the  surroundings 
amid  which  they  were  written.  Turn  over  the  volume 
which  was  written  in  the  country  by  a  man  keenly  alive 
to  outward  things  and  their  influences,  and  you  will  be 
aware  of  a  breeziness  about  the  pages,  —  a  fresher  air 
seems  to  breathe  from  them,  the  atmosphere  of  that  sim 
ple  life  and  its  little  cares.  Turn  over  the  Best  of  all 
books :  read  especially  the  accounts  of  patriarchal  times 
in  Genesis:  and  (inspiration  apart)  you  will  feel  the 
presence  of  something  indefinitely  more  than  the  bare  . 
facts  recorded.  You  will  feel  the  fresh  breeze  come  to 
you  over  the  ocean  of  intervening  centuries :  you  will 
know  that  a  whole  life  and  its  interests  surround  you 
again.  And  there  seems  to  me  no  more  marked  differ 
ence  between  fictitious  stories  written  by  men  of  genius 
and  written  by  commonplace  people  than  this,  that  the 
commonplace  people  make  you  aware  of  just  the  inci 
dents  they  record,  while  the  man  of  genius  makes  you 


THE   OLD   TIME.  137 

aware  of  a  vast  deal  more,  —  of  the  entire  atmosphere 
of  the  surrounding  circumstances  and  concerns  and  life. 
You  will  understand  what  is  meant  when  I  remind  you 
of  the  wonderful  way  in  which  the  battle  of  Waterloo  is 
made  to  surround  and  pervade  a  certain  portion  of  the 
train  of  events  recorded  in  that  thoroughly  true  history, 
Mr.  Thackeray's  Vanity  Fair. 

Now  all  that  is  pleasant.  I  mean  to  the  writer,  not 
necessarily  to  the  reader.  The  writer  has  to  produce 
a  multitude  of  pages,  which  to  produce  is  of  the  nature 
of  grave  work  ;  and  in  them  he  must  hold  right  on,  and 
discuss  his  subject  under  no  small  sense  of  responsibility. 
But  such  pages'  as  this  are  his  play ;  and  he  may  with 
out  rebuke  turn  hither  and  thither,  and  pluck  the  wild 
flowers  on  either  side  of  the  path.  0  how  hard  work  it 
is  to  write  a  sermon ;  and,  when  one  is  in  the  vein,  how 
easy  it  is  to  write  an  essay !  And,  in  saying  that  all 
this  is  pleasant,  the  thing  present  to  the  author's  mind 
was  the  very  devious  course  which  his  train  of  thought 
has  followed  since  the  first  sentence  of  this  dissertation 
was  written.  I  have  a  great  respect  for  certain  men, 
who  write  in  a  logical  and  scholarly  way.  I  admire 
and  esteem  such.  When  I  read  their  productions  at 
all,  I  do  so  after  breakfast,  when  one's  wits  are  fully 
awake.  But  in  the  evening,  by  the  fireside,  when  the 
day's  work  and  worry  are  over,  and  there  remains  the 
precious  little  breathing-space,  I  would  rather  not  read 
them.  Neither  do  I  desire  here  to  write  like  them. 

Going  Away  is  my  subject.  Going  Away  and  its 
atmosphere,  as  it  used  to  be,  and  as  it  is  to  many  people 
now.  Going  Away  from  home.  Not  Going  Away  for 
ever ;  not  Going  Away  for  a  long  time ;  not  Going 


138  A  REMINISCENCE  OF 

Away  under  painful  circumstances.    Ordinary  and  com 
monplace  Going  Away. 

And  let  me  tell  you,  intrepid  travellers,  who  think 
nothing  of  flying  away  to  London,  to  Paris,  to  Cha- 
mouni,  to  Constantinople,  that  Going  Away  for  a  week 
or  two,  and  to  a  distance  not  exceeding  a  hundred  miles, 
is  a  very  serious  thing  to  a  quiet,  stay-at-home  person. 
A  multitude  of  contingencies  suggest  themselves  in  its 
prospect ;  there  is  the  vague  fear  of  the  great,  terrible 
outside  world.  It  is  as  when  a  little  boat,  that  has  been 
lying  safe  in  some  sheltered  cove,  puts  out  to  sea,  to 
face  the  full  might  of  winds  and  waves  ;  when  a  lonely 
human  being,  who  for  months  has  plodded  his  little 
round  of  work  and  care,  looking  at  the  same  scenes,  and 
conversing  with  the  same  people,  musters  courage  to  go 
awray  for  a  little  while.  There  is  a  considerable  inertia 
to  overcome  ;  some  effort  of  resolution  is  needed.  When 
you  have  lived  an  unvaried  life  for  many  weeks  in  a 
quiet  country  place,  your  wish  is  to  sit  still.  Yet  there 
are  great  advantages  which  belong  to  people  who  have 
seen  little  or  nothing.  They  have  so  keen  a  sense  of 
interest,  and  so  lively  an  impression  of  the  facts,  in  be 
holding  something  new.  By  and  by  they  come  to  take 
it  easily.  You  look  out  of  the  window  of  the  railway 
carriage,  and  in  reply  to  something  said  by  a  fellow- 
traveller^  you  say,  "  Ah,  that  's  Berne,  or  that 's  Lau 
sanne,"  and  you  return  to  your  Times  or  your  Saturday 
Review.  You  look  forth  on  the  left  hand,  as  the  train 
rounds  a  curve,  and  say,  "  Strasburg  spire ;  very  fine. 
Four  hundred  and  fifty  feet  high.  It  does  not  look 
nearly  so  much  from  this  point."  Now  once  it  was  very 
different.  It  was  a  vivid  sensation  to  see  for  the  first 


THE  OLD  TIME.  139 

time  some  town  in  England,  or  some  lake  or  hill  in 
Scotland.  My  friend  Smith  told  me  that  once,  for  more 
than  six  years,  beginning  when  he  was  eight-and-twenty, 
he  never  had  stirred  ten  miles  from  his  home  and  his 
parish,  save  when  he  went  in  the  autumn  for  a  few 
weeks  to  the  seaside ;  and  then  he  went  always  to  the 
same  place,  a  journey  of  four  hours  or  so.  It  would 
have  done  him  much  good  —  had  he  been  able  some 
times  through  those  years  which  were  very  anxious 
and  very  trying  ones  —  to  have  the  benefit  of  a  little 
change  of  scene.  But  he  could  not  afford  it;  and  hi 
those  days  of  depressed  fortune,  he  had,  literally,  not  a 
friend  in  this  world,  beyond  the  little  circle  of  his  own 
home.  He  had,  indeed,  some  acquaintances ;  but  they 
were  able  to  understand  him  or  sympathize  with  him 
about  as  much  as  a  donkey  could.  But  better  days 
came,  as  (let  us  trust)  they  will  come,  through  hard 
work  and  self-denial,  to  most  men,  by  God's  blessing ; 
and  Smith  could  venture  on  the  great  enterprise  of  a 
journey  to  London.  Ah  !  an  express  train  was  a  great 
thing  to  him  ;  and  a  journey  of  three  hundred  miles  an 
endless  pilgrimage.  And  he  told  me  himself  (he  is  in 
his  grave  now,  and  no  one  who  knew  him  will  know 
him  by  what  has  been  said  of  him)  that  it  was  an  extra 
ordinary  feeling  to  look  out  of  the  carriage-window,  and 
to  think,  Now  Cambridge  is  only  a  few  miles  off,  over 
these  flats  !  And  farther  on,  when  the  trains  glided  by 
the  capital  of  the  Fens,  and  the  noble  mass  of  Peter 
borough  Cathedral  loomed  through  the  misty  morning, 
it  was  a  stranger  object  to  him  than  St.  Sophia  or  even 
the  Mosque  of  Omar  would  be  to  you ;  and  he  thought 
how  curious  a  thing  it  would  be  to  live  on  that  wide 


140  A  REMINISCENCE  OF 

plain,  in  that  quiet  little  city,  under  the  shadow  of  that 
magnificent  pile.  Probably,  my  friend,  you  have  been 
long  enough  in  many  striking  places  to  feel  their  first 
interest  and  impression  go,  to  feel  their  moral  atmos 
phere  become  inappreciable.  You  feel  all  that  keenly 
at  first ;  but  gradually  the  place  becomes  just  like  any 
where  else.  After  a  while,  the  inner  atmosphere  over 
powers  the  outer ;  the  world  within  the  breast  gives  its 
tone  and  color  to  the  scene  around  you.  I  believe 
firmly,  that  if  you  want  to  know  a  place  vividly  and 
really  (I  mean  a  town  of  moderate  extent),  you  ought  to 
stay  in  it  just  a  day  and  no  more.  By  remaining  longer, 
you  may  come  to  know  all  the  churches  and  shops,  and 
the  like ;  but  you  will  lose  the  pervading  atmosphere 
and  character  of  the  whole.  First  impressions  are  always 
the  most  vivid ;  and  I  firmly  believe  they  are  in  the 
vast  majority  of  cases  the  most  truthful.  An  observant 
and  sensitive  man,  spending  just  a  day  in  a  town  with 
twenty  thousand  inhabitants,  knows  what  kind  of  place 
that  town  is  far  better  than  an  ordinarily  observant 
person  who  has  lived  in  it  for  twenty  years. 

The  truth  is,  that  a  little  of  a  thing  is  usually  far 
more  impressive  than  the  whole  of  it,  or  than  a  great 
deal  of  it.  Don't  you  remember  how,  when  you  were 
a  child,  lying  in  bed  in  the  morning,  you  used  to  watch 
the  daylight  through  the  shutters  ?  And  you  remem 
ber  how  bright  it  looked,  through  the  narrow  line  where 
the  shutters  hardly  met :  it  was  like  a  glowing  fire.  At 
length,  the  shutters  were  thrown  back,  and  they  let  in 
all  the  day ;  and  it  was  nothing  so  bright.  Even  if  the 
morning  was  sunshiny,  there  was  a  sad  falling  off; 
and  perhaps  the  morning  was  dull  and  rainy.  Even. 


THE   OLD   TIME.  141 

so  is  the  glimpse  of  Peterborough  from  the  passing 
express  train,  infinitely  finer  than  the  view  of  Peter 
borough  to  the  man  who  lives  in  it  all  the  year  round. 
Even  so  has  the  quiet  life  of  a  cathedral  city  a  charm 
to  the  visitor  for  a  day,  who  has  come  from  a  land 
where  cathedrals  are  not,  which  fades  away  to  such  as 
spend  all  their  days  in  the  venerable  place,  and  come 
to  have  associations  not  merely  of  glorious  architecture 
and  sublime  mu>ic,  but  likewise  of  many  petty  am 
bitions,  jealousies,  diplomacies,  and  disappointments  ; 
and,  in  short,  of  Mr.  Slope  and  Mrs.  Proudie.  Yes,  a 
little  of  a  thing  is  sometimes  infinitely  better  than  the 
whole  ;  and  it  is  the  little  which  especially  has  power 
to  convey  that  general  estimate  of  a  pervading  char 
acteristic  which  we  understand  by  perceiving  the  moral 
atmosphere.  And  besides  this,  you  may  ha've  a  surfeit 
of  even  the  things  you  like  best.  You  heartily  enjoy 
a  little  country  Gothic  church ;  you  linger  on  every 
detail  of  it ;  it  is  a  pure  delight.  But  a  great  cathedral 
is  almost  too  much :  it  wearies  you,  it  overwhelms  you. 
You  may  get,  through  one  summer  day,  as  much  enjoy 
ment  out  of  Sonning  Church  as  out  of  York  Minster. 
That  perfection  of  an  English  parish  church,  with  its 
perfect  vicarage,  by  the  beautiful  Thames,  is  like  a 
friend  with  whom  you  can  cordially  shake  hands :  the 
great  minster  is  like  a  monarch  to  be  approached  on 
bended  knee.  Most  people  remember  a  case  in  which 
a  thousandth  part  would  have  been  far  better  than  the 
whole :  1  mean,  the  Great  Exhibition  in  that  fine  shed 
which  the  nation  declined  to  buy.  You  would  have 
enjoyed  the  sight  of  a  little  of  what  was  gathered 
there  ;  but  the  whole  was  a  fearful  task  to  get  through. 


142  A  REMINISCENCE  OF 

I  never  beheld  more  wearied,  dazed,  stupefied,  disgusted, 
and  miserable  countenances,  than  among  rich  and  poor 
under  that  roof.  I  wonder  whether  any  mortal  ever 
really  enjoyed  that  glare  and  noise  and  hubbub,  or  felt  his 
soul  expanded  under  the  influence  of  that  huge  educa 
tional  institution.  Too  many  magazines  or  books,  too, 
coming  together,  convert  into  a  toil  what  ought  to  be  a 
pleasure.  'You  look  at  the  mass,  and  you  cannot  help 
thinking  what  a  deal  you  have  to  get  through.  And 
that  thought  is  in  all  cases  fatal  to  enjoyment.  When 
ever  it  enters  the  heart  of  a  little  boy,  contemplating 
his  third  plate  of  plum-pudding,  the  delight  implied  in 
plum-pudding  has  vanished.  Whenever  the  hearer 
listens  to  the  preacher  describing  what  he  is  to  do  in 
the  first  and  second  place,  and  so  on  to  the  fifth  or 
sixth,  the  enjoyment  with  which  most  sermons  are  heard 
is  sensibly  diminished.  And  even  if  you  be  very  fond 
of  books,  there  is  a  sense  of  desolation  in  being  turned 
loose  in  a  library  of  three  hundred  thousand  volumes. 
That  huge  array  is  an  incubus  on  your  spirit.  There 
is  far  more  sensible  pleasure  when  you  go  into  a  friend's 
snug  little  study,  and  diligently  survey  his  thousand  or 
twelve  hundred  books.  And  you  know  that  if  a  man 
has  a  drawing-room  a  hundred  feet  long,  he  takes  pains 
to  convert  that  large  room  into  a  little  one,  by  enclosing 
a  warm  space  round  the  fire  with  great  screens  for 
his  evening  retreat.  Yes,  a  little  is  generally  much 
better  than  a  great  deal. 

A  thing  which  precedes  Going  Away  is  packing  up. 
And  this  the  wise  man  will  do  for  himself,  the  more  so 
if  he  cannot  afford  to  have  any  one  to  do  it  for  him. 
There  is  a  great  pleasure  in  doing  things  for  yourself. 


THE  OLD  TIME.  143 

And  here  is  one  of  the  compensations  of  poverty.  You 
open  for  yourself  the  parcel  of  new  books  you  have 
bought,  and  with  your  own  hand  you  cut  the  leaves. 
A  great  peer,  of  course,  could  not  do  this,  I  suppose. 
The  volumes  would  be  prepared  for  his  reading,  and 
laid  before  him  with  nothing  to  do  but  to  read  them. 
Now,  it  ought  to  be  understood,  that  the  reading  of  a 
book  is  by  no  means  the  only  use  you  can  put  it  to,  or 
the  only  good  you  can  get  out  of  it.  There  is  the  en 
joyment  of  stripping  off  the  massive  wrappings  in  which 
the  volumes  travelled  from  the  bookseller's  shop, 
through  devious  ways,  to  the  country  home.  There  is 
the  enjoyment  of  cutting  the  leaves,  which,  if  you  have 
a  large  ivory  paper  knife,  is  a  very  sensible  one.  There 
is  the  enjoyment  of  laying  the  volumes  after  their  leaves 
are  cut  upon  your  study  table,  and  sitting  down  in  an 
arm-chair  by  the  fireside,  and  calmly  and  thoughtfully 
looking  at  them.  There  is  the  enjoyment  of  considering 
earnestly  the  place  where  they  shall  be  put  on  your 
shelves,  and  then  of  placing  them  there,  and  of  arrang 
ing  the  volumes  which  have  been  turned  out  to  make 
room  for  them.  All  these  pleasures  you  have,  quite 
apart  from  the  act  of  reading  the  books ;  and  all  these 
pleasures  are  denied  to  the  rich  and  mighty  man  who  is 
too  great  to  be  allowed  to  do  things  for  himself.  He 
has  only  the  end  :  we  have  both  the  end  and  the  means 
which  lead  up  to  it.  And  the  greater  part  of  human 
enjoyment  is  the  enjoyment  of  means,  not  of  ends. 
There  is  as  much  solid  satisfaction  in  going  out  and 
looking  at  your  horse  in  his  warm  stable  as  in  riding 
or  driving  him.  An  eminent  sportsman  begins  a  book 
in  which  he  gives  an  account  of  his  exploits  in  hunting 


144  A  REMINISCENCE   OF 

in  a  foreign  country,  by  fondly  telling  how  happy  he 
was  in  petting  up  his  old  guns  till  they  looked  like  new, 
and  in  preparing  and  packing  ammunition  in  the  pros 
pect  of  setting  off  on  his  expedition.  You  can  see  that 
these  tranquil  and  busy  days  of  anticipation  and  pre 
paration  at  home  were  at  least  as  enjoyable  as  the  more 
exciting  days  of  actual  sport  which  followed.  Now, 
however  much  a  duke  might  like  to  do  all  this,  I 
suppose  his  nobility  would  oblige  him  to  forego  the 
satisfaction. 

If  you  have  a  wife  and  children  (and  for  the  pur 
poses  of  this  essay  I  suppose  you  to  have  both),  the 
multitude  of  trunks  and  packing-cases  in  which  their 
possessions  are  bestowed  in  the  prospect  of  going  away, 
are  sought  out  and  packed  apart  from  any  exertion  or 
superintendence  on  your  part.  Your  share  consists  in 
writing  addresses  for  them,  and  in  counting  up  the 
twenty-three  things  that  are  assembled  in  the  lobby 
before  they  are  loaded  on  cart,  cab,  or  carriage.  I  have 
remarked  it  as  a  curious  thing,  that  when  a  man  with 
his  wife  and  two  or  three  children  and  three  or  four 
servants  go  to  the  seaside  in  autumn,  the  articles  of  lug 
gage  invariably  amount  to  twenty-three.  And  it  has 
ever  been  to  me  a  strange  and  perplexing  thought,  how 
so  many  trunks  and  boxes  are  needed,  and  how,  through 
various  changes  by  land  and  sea,  they  get  safely  to  their, 
destination.  There  are  few  positions  which  awaken 
more  gratitude  and  satisfaction  in  the  average  human 
being,  than  (having  arrived  at  the  seaside  place)  to  see 
the  twenty-three  things  safe  upon  the  little  pier,  after 
the  roaring  steamer  which  brought  them  has  departed, 
and  the  little  crowd  has  dispersed ;  when,  amid  the  still- 


THE  OLD  TIME.  145 

ness,  suddenly  become,  audible,  you  tell  the  keeper  of 
the  pier  to  send  your  baggage  to  the  dwelling  which  is 
to  be  your  temporary  home.  A  position  even  more 
gratifying  is  as  follows :  when,  returning  to  town,  your 
holiday  over,  you  succeed,  by  the  aid  of  two  liberally- 
tipped  porters,  in  recovering  all  your  effects  from  the 
luggage-van  of  the  railway-train,  amid  an  awful  crowd 
and  confusion  on  the  platform,  and  accumulating  them 
into  a  heap,  for  whose  conveyance  you  would  assuredly 
be  called  to  pay  extra  but  for  the  judicious  largesse 
already  alluded  to ;  then  in  seeing  them  piled  in  and 
upon  three  cabs,  in  which  you  slowly  wend  your  way  to 
your  door;  and  finally,  in  the  lobby,  whence  they  origi 
nally  started,  counting  up  your  twenty-three  things  once 
more.  Yes,  there  is  much  pleasure  attendant  on  the 
possession  and  conveyance  of  luggage  ;  a  pleasure  min 
gled  with  pain,  indeed,  like  most  of  our  pleasures ;  a 
pleasure  dashed  with  anxiety  and  clouded  with  confu 
sion,  yet  ultimately  passing  into  a  sense  of  delightful 
rest  and  relief,  as  you  count  up  the  twenty-three  things 
and  find  them  all  right,  which  you  had  hardly  dared  to 
hope  they  would  ever  be. 

So  much  having  been  said  concerning  the  general 
luggage  of  the  family,  let  us  return  to  the  thought  of 
your  own  personal  packing.  You  pack  your  own  port 
manteau,  arranging  things  in  that  order  which  long  usage 
has  led  you  to  esteem  as  the  best.  And  if  you  be  a 
clergyman,  you  always  introduce  into  that  receptacle 
your  sermon-case  with  two  or  three  sermons.  You  do 
this,  if  you  be  a  wise  man,  though  there  should  not  ap 
pear  the  faintest  chance  of  your  having  to  preach  any 
where,  —  having  learned  by  experience  how  often  and 
7  j 


146  A  REMINISCENCE  OF 

how  unexpectedly  such  chances  occur.  And  then,  when 
your  portmanteau  is  finally  strapped  up  and  ready  to  go, 
you  look  at  it  with  a  moralizing  glance,  and  think  how 
little  a  thing  it  looks  to  hold  such  a  great  deal.  It  is 
like  a  general  principle,  including  a  host  of  individual 
cases.  It  is  like  a  bold  assertion,  which  you  accept 
without  thinking  of  all  it  implies.  And  in  a  short  time 
that  compendium  of  things  immediately  needful  will  be 
one  among  a  score  like  it  in  the  luggage-van.  Thus,  the 
philosopher  may  reflect,  is  every  man's  own  concern  the 
most  interesting  to  himself,  because  every  man  knows 
best  what  is  involved  in  his  own  concern. 

There  are  many  associations  about  the  battered  old 
leathern  object,  and  it  is  sad  to  remark  that  it  is  wear 
ing  out.  It  is  to  many  people  a  sensible  trial  to  throw 
aside  anything  they  have  had  for  a  long  time.  And  this 
thing  especially,  which  has  faithfully  kept  so  many  things 
you  intrusted  to  it,  and  which  has  gone  with  you  to  so 
many  places,  seems  to  cast  a  silent  appealing  look  at 
you  when  you  think  it  is  getting  so  shabby  that  you 
must  throw  it  aside.  Some  day  you  and  I,  my  friend, 
will  be  like  an  old  portmanteau ;  and  we  shall  be  pushed 
out  of  the  way  to  make  room  for  something  fresh. 
Probably  it  is  worldly  wisdom  to  treat  trunks  and  men 
like  that  single-minded  person,  Mr.  Uppish,  who  stead 
fastly  cuts  his  old  friends  as  he  gradually  gets  into  a 
superior  social  stratum.  Doubtless  he  has  his  reward. 

It  is  invariably  on  Monday  morning  that  certain  hu 
man  beings  Go  Away,  in  the  grave  and  formal  manner 
which  has  been  spoken  of.  I  mean,  with  an  entire  fam 
ily,  and  with  the  twenty-three  trunks,  many  of  them 


THE   OLD  TIME.  147 

very  large  ones.  Not  unfrequently  a  perambulator  is 
present,  also  a  nursery  crib.  And  going  at  that  especial 
period  of  the  week,  there  is  a  certain  thing  inevitably 
associated  with  Going  Away.  That  thing  is  the  periodi 
cal  called  the  Saturday  Review.  It  comes  every  Mon 
day  morning ;  and  you  cut  the  leaves  after  breakfast  and 
glance  over  it,  but  you  put  off  the  reading  of  it  till  the 
evening.  But  on  those  travelling  days  this  paper  is 
associated  with  the  forenoon.  Breakfast  is  a  hasty  meal 
that  day.  The  heavy  baggage,  if  you  dwell  in  the 
country,  has  gone  away  early  in  a  cart,  —  the  railway 
station  is  of  course  five  miles  off.  And  then,  just  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  after  the  period  you  had  named  to 
your  man-servant,  round  comes  the  phaeton  which  can 
hold  so  much.  It  comes  at  the  very  moment  you  really 
desired  to  have  it,  —  for  knowing  that  your  servant  will 
always  be  exactly  a  quarter  of  an  hour  too  late,  you  al 
ways  order  it  just  a  quarter  of  an  hour  before  the  time 
you  really  want  it.  Phaeton  of  chocolate  hue,  picked 
out  with  red  and  white ;  horse  of  the  sixteen  hands  and 
an  inch,  jet  black  of  color,  well-bred  in  blood,  and  gen 
tle  of  nature,  where  are  you  both  to-night  ?  Through 
the  purple  moorlands,  through  the  rich  cornfields,  along 
the  shady  lanes,  up  the  High-street  of  the  little  town, 
we  have  gone  together ;  but  the  day  came  at  length 
when  you  had  to  go  one  way  and  I  another ;  and  we  have 
each  gone  through  a  good  deal  of  hard  work  doubtless 
since  then.  Pleasant  it  is,  driving  home  from  the  town 
in  the  winter  afternoon,  and  reaching  your  door  when  it 
has  grown  pretty  dark ;  pleasant  is  the  flood  of  mellow 
light  that  issues  forth  when  your  door  is  opened ;  pleas 
ant  is  it  to  witness  the  unloading  of  the  vast  amount  and 


148  A  REMINISCENCE  OF 

variety  of  things  which,  in  various  receptacles,  that  far 
from  ponderous  equipage  could  convey ;  pleasant  to 
witness  the  pile  that  accumulates  on  the  topmost  step 
before  your  door ;  pleasant  to  behold  the  bundle  of  books 
and  magazines  from  the  reading-club ;  pleasanter  to  see 
the  less  frequent  parcel  of  those  which  you  can  call  your 
own ;  pleasant  to  see  the  manifold  brown-paper  parcels 
enter  the  house,  which  seems  to  be  such  a  devouring 
monster,  craving  ceaseless  fresh  supply.  All  this  while 
the  night  is  falling  fast,  and  the  great  trees  look  down, 
ghost-like,  upon  the  little  bustle  underneath  them.  Then 
phaeton  and  horse  depart ;  and  in  a  little  you  go  round 
to  the  stable-yard,  and  find  your  faithful  steed,  now  dry 
and  warm,  in  his  snug  stall,  eagerly  eating,  yet  bearing 
in  a  kindly  way  a  few  pats  on  the  neck  and  a  few  pulls 
of  the  ears.  And  your  faithful  man-servant  is  quite 
sure  to  have  some  wonderful  intelligence  to  convey  to 
you,  picked  up  in  town  that  afternoon.  In  the  country, 
you  have  not  merely  the  enjoyment  of  rich  summer 
scenery,  of  warm  sunsets,  and  green  leaves  shining  gold 
en  ;  there  is  a  peculiar  pleasure  known  to  the  thorough 
country  man  in  the  most  wintry  aspects  of  nature.  The 
bleak  trees  and  sky  outside,  the  moan  of  the  rising  wind 
presaging  a  wild  night,  and  the  brawl  of  the  swollen 
brook  that  runs  hard  by,  all  make  one  value  the  warmth 
and  light  and  comfort  within  doors  about  forty  times  as 
much  as  you  could  value  these  simple  blessings  in  a 
great  city,  where  they  seem  quite  natural,  and  matters 
of  course.  Of  course,  a  great  man  would  not  care  for 
these  things,  and  would  despise  the  small  human  being 
that  does  care  for  them.  Let  the  great  man  take  his 
own  way,  and  let  the  small  human  being  be  allowed  to 
follow  his  in  peace. 


THE  OLD  TIME.  149 

This,  however,  is  a  deviation  to  an  evening  on  which 
you  come  home ;  whereas  our  proper  subject  is  a  morn 
ing  on  which  you  go  away  from  home.  The  phaeton 
has  come  to  the  door ;  many  little  things  go  in ;  finally 
the  passengers  take  their  seats,  and  the  thick  rugs  are 
tucked  in  over  their  knees ;  then  you  take  the  reins  (for 
you  drive  yourself),  and  you  wind  away  outward  till 
you  enter  the  highway.  The  roads  are  smooth  and 
firm,  and  for  all  the  heavy  load  behind  him,  the  black 
horse  trots  briskly  away.  Have  I  not  beheld  a  human 
being,  his  wife,  two  children,  a  man-servant,  and  a  wo 
man-servant,  steadily  skimming  along  at  a  respectable 
nine  miles  an  hour,  with  but  one  living  creature  for  all 
the  means  of  locomotion  ?  And  the  living  creature  was 
shining  and  plump,  and  unmistakably  happy.  The  five 
miles  are  overcome,  and  you  enter  the  court-yard  of 
your  little  railway  station.  There  in  a  heap,  cunningly 
placed  on  the  platform  where  the  luggage-van  may  be 
expected  to  rest  when  the  train  stops,  is  your  luggage. 
The  cart  has  been  faithful :  there  are  the  twenty- three 
things.  You  have  driven  the  last  mile  or  two  under  a 
certain  fear  lest  you  might  be  too  late ;  and  that  fear 
will  quicken  an  unsophisticated  country  pulse.  But 
you  have  ten  minutes  to  spare.  There  are  no  people 
but  your  own  party  to  divide  the  attention  of  the  soli 
tary  porter.  At  length,  a  mile  off,  along  the  river  bank, 
you  discern  the  sinuous  train:  in  a  little  the  tremen 
dously  energetic  locomotive  passes  by  you,  and  the  train 
is  at  rest.  You  happily  find  a  compartment  which  is 
empty,  and  there  you  swiftly  bestow  your  living  charge ; 
and  having  done  this  you  hasten  to  witness  the  safe 
embarkation  of  the  twenty-three  trunks  and  packages. 


150  A  REMINISCENCE  OF 

All  this  must  be  done  rapidly,  and  of  course  you  take 
much  more  trouble  than  a  more  experienced  traveller 
would.  And  when  at  length  you  hurriedly  climb  into 
your  place,  you  sink  down  in  your  seat,  and  feel  a  de 
licious  sense  of  quiet.  The  morning  has  been  one  of 
worry,  after  all.  But  now  you  are  all  right  for  the  next 
four  hours.  And  that  is  a  long  look  forward.  You 
keenly  appreciate  this  blink  of  entire  rest.  Your  unac 
customed  nerves  have  been  stretched  by  that  fear  of 
being  late ;  then  there  was  the  hurry  of  getting  the 
children  into  their  carriage,  and  seeing  after  the  twenty- 
three  things ;  and  now  comes  a  reaction.  For  a  few 
miles  it  is  enough  just  to  sit  still,  and  look  at  the  faces 
beside  you  and  opposite  you,  and  especially  to  watch  the 
wonder  imprinted  on  the  two  round  little  faces  looking 
out  of  the  window.  First,  looking  out  on  either  side 
there  is  a  deep  gorge  ;  great  trees  ;  rocks  on  one  side,  and 
on  the  other  side  a  river.  By  and  by  the  golden  gleam 
of  ripe  cornfields  in  the  sunshine  on  either  hand  light 
ens  up  all  faces.  And  now,  forth  from  its  bag  comes 
the  Saturday  Review  ;  and  you  read  it  luxuriously,  with 
frequent  pauses  and  lookings  out  between.  Do  the 
keen,  sharp,  brilliant  men  who  write  those  trenchant 
paragraphs  ever  think  of  the  calm  enjoyment  they  are 
providing  for  simple  minds  ?  Although  you  do  not  care 
in  the  least  about  the  subject  discussed,  there  is  a  keen 
pleasure  in  remarking  the  skill  and  pith  and  felicity 
with  which  the  writer  discusses  it.  You  feel  a  certain 
satisfaction  in  thinking  that  every  Monday  since  that 
periodical  started  on  its  career,  you  have  read  it.  It  is 
a  sort  of  intellectual  thing  to  do.  You  reflect  with 
pleasure  on  the  statement  made  on  oath  by  a  witness  in 


THE  OLD  TIME.  151 

a  famous  trial.  He  described  a  certain  person  as  "  a 
sensible  and  intelligent  man  who  took  in  the  Times" 
What  proof,  then,  of  scholarly  likings,  and  of  power  to 
appreciate  what  not  everybody  can  appreciate,  should 
be  esteemed  as  furnished  by  the  fact  that  a  man  pays  for 
and  reads  the  Saturday  Review  ? 

Now  here,  my  reader,  we  have  reached  the  very  ar 
ticle  of  GOING  AWAY.  Many  are  the  thoughts  through 
which  we  approached  it :  here  it  is  at  last.  Behold  the 
human  being,  about  the  first  day  of  August,  seated  in  a 
corner  of  a  railway  carriage,  whose  cushions  are  luxu 
rious,  and  whose  general  effect  is  of  blue  cloth  within, 
and  varnished  teak  without.  Opposite  the  human  being 
sits  his  wife.  Pervading  the  carriage  you  may  behold 
two  children.  And  carefully  tending  them,  and  seeking 
vainly  to  keep  them  quiet,  you  may  (in  very  many 
cases,  for  such  excellent  persons  are  happily  not  uncom 
mon)  discern  a  certain  nurse,  who  is  as  a  member  of 
that  little  family  circle ;  more  than  a  trusted  and  valued 
servant,  even  a  faithful  friend.  That  is  how  human 
beings  Go  Away.  That  is  the  kind  of  picture  which 
rises  in  the  writer's  mind,  and  in  the  mind  of  very  many- 
people  in  a  like  station  in  this  life,  when  looking  back 
over  not  many  years. 

There  is  a  certain  cumbrous  enjoyment  in  all  Going 
Away,  bearing  with  you  all  these  impedimenta  ;  even 
when  you  are  going  merely  for  a  Christmas  week  or 
the  like.  But  the  great  Going  Away  is  at  the  begin 
ning  of  your  autumn  holidays.  And  thinking  of  this, 
I  feel  the  prospect  change  from  country  to  town:  I 
think  how  the  human  being,  wearied  out  by  many 
months  of  hard  work  amid  city  bustle  and  pressure, 


152  A  REMINISCENCE  OF 

leaves  these  behind ;  how  the  little  children  shut  up 
their  school-books,  and  their  tired  instructors  are  off  for 
their  turn  of  much-needed  recreation  ;  how  the  churches 
are  emptied,  and  the  streets  deserted ;  how  the  congre 
gation,  assembled  in  one  place  on  the  last  Sunday  of 
July,  is  before  the  next  one  scattered  far  and  wide,  like 
the  fragments  of  a  bursting  bombshell.  But  it  is  not 
now,  in  this  mid-term  of  work,  that  one  can  recall  the 
feelings  of  commencing  holiday-time.  Meanwhile,  you 
are  out  of  sympathy  with  it ;  and  every  good  thing  is 
beautiful  in  its  time. 

Was  it  worth  while  thus  to  revive  things  so  long  past? 
It  has  been  pleasant  for  the  writer ;  and  a  hundred 
things  not  recorded  here  have  been  awakened  in  the  re 
trospect.  And  when  these  pages  meet  the  right  people's 
eye,  they  may  serve  to  recall  simple  modes  of  being  and 
doing  which  are  melting  fast  away.  For  the  experience 
of  ordinary  mortals  is  remarkably  uniform ;  and  most 
of  the  people  you  know  are  in  many  respects  extremely 
like  yourself.  Now  let  us  cease  and  sit  down  and  think. 
^There  is  indeed  a  temptation  to  go  on.  One  would 
rather  not  stop  in  the  middle  of  a  page ;  I  mean  a  manu 
script  page ;  and  it  is  almost  too  much  for  human  nature 
to  know  that  we  may  add  a  few  sentences  more,  and 
they  will  not  be  cut  off.  And  there  are  positions  too 
much  for  human  nature.  A  sense  of  power  and  author 
ity,  as  a  general  rule,  is  more  than  the  average  man 
can  bear.  Not  long  since  I  beheld,  in  the  superhuman 
dignity  of  a  policeman,  something  which  deeply  im 
pressed  this  on  my  mind.  The  kitchen  chimney  of  this 
dwelling  caught  fire.  It  is  contrary  to  municipal  law  to 


THE  OLD  TIME.  153 

let  your  kitchen  chimney  catch  fire,  and  very  properly 
so  ;  so  there  was  a  fine  to  be  paid.  On  a  certain  day  I 
was  told  there  was  a  policeman  in  the  kitchen,  who  de 
sired  an  interview.  I  proceeded  thither  and  found  him 
there.  No  language  can  convey  an  idea  of  the  stern 
and  unyielding  severity  of  that  eminent  man's  demean 
or.  He  seemed  to  think  I  would  probably  plead  with 
him  to  let  Justice  turn  from  her  rigid  course  ;  and  he 
sought  by  his  whole  bearing  to  convey  that  any  such 
pleading  would  be  futile ;  and  that,  whatever  might  be 
said,  the  half-crown  must  be  paid,  to  be  applied  to  public 
purposes.  When  I  entered  his  presence,  he  sternly 
asked  me  what  was  my  name.  Of  course  he  knew  my 
name  just  as  well  as  I  did  myself;  but  there  was  some 
thing  in  the  requirement  fitted  to  make  me  feel  my 
humble  position  before  him.  And  having  received  the 
information,  he  made  a  note  of  it  in  a  little  book ;  and, 
conveying  that  serious  consequences  would  follow,  he 
departed.  A  similar  manifestation  may  be  found  in  the 
case  of  magistrates  in  small  authority.  I  have  heard 
of  such  an  individual  who  dispensed  justice  from  a  seedy 
little  bench,  with  an  awful  state.  He  sat  upon  that 
bench  all  alone  ;  and  no  matter  of  the  smallest  im 
portance  ever  came  before  him.  Yet  when  expressing 
his  opinion,  he  never  failed  to  state  that  THE  COURT 
thought  so  and  so.  A  vague  impression  of  dignity  thus 
was  made  to  surround  the  workings  of  the  individual 
mind.  It  once  befell,  that  certain  youthful  students,  in  a 
certain  university,  had  a  strife  with  the  police ;  and 
being  captured  by  the  strong  arm  of  the  law,  were  con 
veyed  before  such  a  magistrate.  Sitting  upon  the  judg 
ment  seat,  he  sternly  upbraided  the  youths  for  their 
7* 


154  REMINISCENCE  OF  THE  OLD  TIME. 

discreditible  behaviour ;  adding,  that  it  gave  him  special 
sorrow  to  witness  such  lawless  violence  in  the  case  of 
individuals  who  were  receiving  a  university  eddication. 
He  did  not  know,  that  unhappy  magistrate,  that  there 
stood  at  his  bar  one  whose  audacious  heart  quailed  not 
in  his  presence.  "  Stop,"  exclaimed  that  unutterably 
irreverent  youth,  interrupting  the  stern  magistrate;  "let 
me  entreat  you  to  pronounce  the  word  properly ;  it  is 
not  EDDICATION,  it  is  EDUCATION."  And  the  magistrate's 
dignity  suddenly  collapsed,  like  a  blown-up  bladder  when 
you  insert  a  penknife.  This  incident  is  recorded  to  have 
happened  at  Timbuctoo,  in  the  last  century.  I  have  no 
doubt  the  story  is  not  true.  Hardly  any  stories  are  true. 
Yet  I  have  often  heard  it  related.  And  like  the  legend 
of  The  Ass  and  the  Archbishop,  which  is  utterly  without 
foundation,  you  feel  that  it  ought  to  be  true. 


CHAPTER   IX. 


CONCERNING    OLD    ENEMIES. 


may  be  assumed  as  certain,  that  most  read 
ers  of  this  page  have  on  some  occasion 
climbed  a  high  hill.  It  may  be  esteemed 
as  probable,  that  when  half-way  up,  they  felt 
out  of  breath  and  tired.  It  is  extremely  likely  that, 
having  come  to  some  inviting  spot,  they  sat  down  and 
rested  for  a  little,  before  passing  on  to  the  summit. 
Now,  my  reader,  if  you  have  done  all  that,  I  feel  assured 
that  you  must  have  remarked  as  a.  fact  that,  though 
when  you  sit  down  you  cease  to  make  progress,  you  do 
not  go  back.  You  do  not  lose  the  ground  already 
gained.  But  if  you  ever  think  at  all,  even  though  it 
should  be  as  little  as  possible,  you  must  have  discerned 
the  vexatious  truth  that  in  respect  of  another  and  more 
important  kind  of  progress,  unless  you  keep  going  on, 
you  begin  to  go  back.  You  struggle,  in  a  moral  sense, 
up  the  steep  slope ;  and  you  sit  down  at  the  top,  think 
ing  to  yourself,  "Now  that  is  overcome."  But  after 
resting  for  a  while  you  look  round ;  and  lo !  insensibly 
you  have  been  sliding  down,  and  you  are  back  again  at 
the  foot  of  the  eminence  you  climbed  with  so  much  pain 
and  toil. 


156  CONCEKNING  OLD  ENEMIES. 

There  are  certain  enemies  with  which  every  worthy 
human  being  has  to  fight,  as  regards  which  you  will  feel, 
as  you  go  on,  that  this  principle  holds  especially  true ; 
the  principle  that  if  you  do  not  keep  going  forward,  you 
will  begin  to  lose  ground  and  go  backward.  It  is  not 
enough  to  knock  these  enemies  on  the  head  for  once. 
In  your  inexperienced  days  you  will  do  this ;  and  then, 
seeing  that  they  look  quite  dead,  you  will  fancy  they 
will  never  trouble  you  any  more.  But  you  will  find 
out,  to  your  painful  cost,  that  those  enemies  of  yours 
and  mine  must  be  knocked  at  the  head  repeatedly. 
One  knocking,  though  the  severest,  will  not  suffice. 
They  keep  always  reviving,  and  struggling  to  their  feet 
again ;  a  little  weak  at  first  through  the  battering  you 
gave  them,  but  in  a  very  short  time  as  vigorous  and 
mischievous  as  ever.  The  Frenchman,  imperfectly  ac 
quainted  with  the  force  of  English  words,  and  eager 
that  extremest  vengeance  should  be  wreaked  on  certain 
human  foes,  cried  aloud,  "  KILL  THEM  VERY  OFTEN  " ! 
And  that,  my  friend,  as  regards  the  worst  enemies  we 
have  got,  is  precisely  what  you  and  I  must  do. 

If  we  are  possessed  of  common  sense  to  even  a 
limited  amount,  we  must  know  quite  well  who  are  our 
worst  enemies.  Not  Miss  Limejuice,  who  tells  lies  to 
make  you  appear  a  conceited,  silly,  and  ignorant  person. 
Nor  Mr.  Snarling,  who  diligently  strives  to  prevent 
your  reaching  something  you  would  like,  because  (as  he 
says)  the  disappointment  will  do  you  good.  Not  the 
human  curs  that  gnarr  at  your  heels  when  you  attain 
some  conspicuous  success  or  distinction  ;  which  probably 
you  worked  hard  for,  and  waited  long  for.  Not  these. 
"A  man's  foes,"  by  special  eminence  and  distinction, 


CONCERNING  OLD  ENEMIES.  157 

are  even  nearer  him  than  "  they  of  his  own  house  : "  a 
man's  worst  enemies  are  they  of  his  own  heart  and  soul. 
The  enemies  that  do  you  most  harm,  and  probably  that 
cause  you  most  suffering,  are  tendencies  and  feelings  in 
yourself.  If  all  within  the  citadel  were  right,  if  the 
troop  of  thoughts  and  affections  there  were  orderly  and 
well-disposed  and  well-guided,  we  should  be  very  in 
dependent  of  the  enemies  outside.  Outside  temptation 
can  never  make  a  man  do  wrong  till  something  inside 
takes  it  by  the  hand,  and  fraternizes  with  it,  and  sides 
with  it.  The  bad  impulse  within  must  walk  up  arm  in 
arm  with  the  bad  impulse  from  without,  and  introduce 
it  to  the  will,  before  the  bad  impulse  from  without,  how 
ever  powerful  it  may  be,  can  make  man  or  woman  go 
astray  from  right.  All  this,  however,  may  be  taken  for 
granted.  What  I  wish  to  impress  on  the  reader  is  this : 
that  in  fighting  with  these  worst  enemies,  it  is  not 
enough  for  once  to  cut  them  down ;  smash  them,  bray 
them  in  a  mortar.  If  you  were  fighting  with  a  Chinese 
invader,  and  if  you  were  to  send  a  rifle-bullet  through 
his  head,  or  in  any  other  way  to  extinguish  his  life,  you 
would  feel  that  he  was  done  with.  You  would  have  no 
more  trouble  from  that  quarter.  But  once  shoot  or 
slash  the  ugly  beast  which  is  called  Envy,  or  Self- 
Conceit,  or  Unworthy  Ambition,  or  Hasty  Speaking,  or 
general  Foolishness,  and  you  need  not  plume  yourself 
that  you  will  not  be  troubled  any  more  with  him.  Let  us 
call  the  beast  by  the  general  name  of  BESETTING  SIN;  and 
let  us  recognize  the  fact,  that  though  you  never  willingly 
give  it  a  moment's  quarter,  though  you  smash  in  its 
head  (in  a  moral  sense)  with  a  big  stone,  though  you 
kick  it  (in  a  moral  sense)  till  it  seems  to  be  lying  quite 


158  CONCERNING  OLD  ENEMIES. 

lifeless,  in  a  little  while  it  will  be  up  again  as  strong 
as  ever.  And  the  only  way  to  keep  it  down  is  to  knock 
it  on  the  skull  afresh  every  time  it  begins  to  lift  up  its 
ugly  face.  Or,  to  go  back  to  my  first  figure  :  you  have 
climbed,  by  a  hard  effort,  up  to  a  certain  moral  elevation. 
You  have  reached  a  position,  climbing  up  the  great 
ascent  that  leads  towards  God,  at  which  you  feel  re 
signed  to  God's  will,  and  kindly  disposed  to  all  your 
fellow-creatures,  even  to  such  as  have  done  you  a  bad 
turn  already,  and  will  not  fail  to  do  the  like  again. 
You  also  feel  as  if  your  heart  were  not  set,  as  it  once 
used  to  be,  upon  worldly  aims  and  ends  ;  but  as  if  you 
were  really  day  by  day  working  towards  something 
quite  different  and  a  great  deal  higher.  You  feel  hum 
ble,  patient,  charitable.  You  sit  down  there,  on  that 
moral  elevation,  satisfied  with  yourself,  and  thinking  to 
yourself,  Now,  I  am  a  humble,  contented,  kindly, 
Christian  human  being ;  and  I  am  so  for  life.  And  let 
it  be  said  thankfully,  if  you  keep  always  on  the  alert, 
always  watching  against  any  retrogression,  always  with 
a  stone  ready  to  knock  any  old  enemy  on  the  head, 
always  looking  and  seeking  for  a  strength  beyond  your 
own,  —  you  may  remain  all  that  for  life.  But  if  you 
grow  lazy  and  careless,  in  a  very  little  while  you  will 
have  glided  a  long  way  down  the  hill  again.  You  will 
be  back  at  your  old  evil  ways.  You  will  be  eager  to 
get  on,  and  as  set  on  this  world  as  if  this  world  were 
all,  you  will  find  yourself  hitting  hard  the  man  who 
has  hit  you,  envying  and  detracting  from  the  man 
who  has  surpassed  you,  and  all  the  other  bad  things. 
Or  if  you  do  not  retrograde  so  far  as  that,  if  you  pull 
yourself  up  before  the  old  bad  impulse  within  you  comes 


CONCERNING  OLD  ENEMIES.  159 

to  actual  bad  deeds,  still  you  will  know  that  the  old 
bad  impulse  within  you  is  stirring,  and  that,  by  God's 
help,  you  must  give  it  another  stab. 

Now  this  is  disheartening.  When,  by  making  a  great 
effort,  very  painful  and  very  long,  you  have  put  such  a 
bad  impulse  down,  it  is  very  natural  to  think  that  it  will 
never  vex  you  any  more.  The  dragon  has  been  tram 
pled  under  the  horse's  feet,  its  head  has  been  cut  off; 
surely  you  are  done  with  it.  You  have  ruled  your  spirit 
into  being  right  and  good;  into  being  magnanimous, 
kindly,  humble.  And  then  you  fancied  you  might  go 
ahead  to  something  more  advanced ;  you  had  got  over 
the  Pons  Asinorum  in  the  earnest  moral  work  of  life. 
You  have  extirpated  the  wolves  from  your  England,  and 
now  you  may  go  on  to  destroy  the  moles.  The  wolves 
are  all  lying  dead,  each  stabbed  to  the  heart.  You 
honestly  believe  that  you  had  got  beyond  them,  and  that 
whatever  new  enemies  may  assail  you,  the  old  ones,  at 
least,  are  done  with  finally.  But  the  wolves  get  up 
again.  The  old  enemies  revive. 

I  have  sometimes  wondered  whether  those  men  who 
have  done  much  to  help  you  and  me  in  the  putting  down 
of  our  worst  enemies,  have  truly  and  finally  slain  those 
enemies  as  far  as  concerns  themselves.  Is  the  man,  in 
reading  whose  pages  I  feel  I  am  subjected  to  a  health 
ful  influence,  that  puts  down  the  unworthy  parts  of  my 
nature,  and  that  makes  me  feel  more  kindly,  magnani 
mous,  hopeful,  and  earnest  than  when  left  to  myself,  —  is 
that  man,  I  wonder,  always  as  good  himself  as  for  the 
time  he  makes  me  ?  Or  can  it  be  true  that  the  man 
who  seems  not  merely  to  have  knocked  on  the  head  the 
lower  impulses  of  his  own  nature,  but  to  have  done  good 


160         CONCERNING  OLD  ENEMIES. 

to  you  and  me,  my  friend,  by  helping  to  kill  those  im 
pulses  within  us,  has  still  to  be  fighting  away  with 
beasts,  like  St.  Paul  at  Ephesus ;  still  to  be  lamenting, 
on  many  days,  that  the  ugly  faces  of  suspicion,  jealousy, 
disposition  to  retaliate  when  assailed,  and  the  like,  keep 
wakening  up  and  flying  at  him  again  ?  I  fear  it  is  so. 
I  doubt  whether  the  human  being  lives  in  whom  evil, 
however  long  and  patiently  trodden  down,  does  not 
sometimes  erect  its  crest,  and  hiss,  and  need  to  be  trod 
den  down  again.  Vain  thoughts  and  fancies,  long  ex 
tinguished,  will  waken  up ;  unworthy  tendencies  will 
give  a  push  now  and  then.  And  especially  I  believe  it 
is  a  great  delusion  to  fancy  that  a  man  who  writes  in  a 
healthy  and  kindly  strain  is  what  he  counsels.  If  he  be 
an  honest  and  earnest  man  I  believe  that  he  is  striving 
after  that  which  he  counsels,  and  that  he  is  aiming  at 
the  spirit  and  temper  which  he  sets  out.  I  think  I  can 
generally  make  out  what  are  a  moral  or  religious  writ 
er's  besetting  sins,  by  remarking  what  are  the  virtues 
he  chiefly  magnifies.  He  is  struggling  after  those 
virtues,  struggling  to  break  away  from  the  correspond 
ing  errors  and  failings.  If  you  find  a  man  who  in  all 
he  writes  is  scrupulously  fair  and  temperate,  it  is  proba 
ble  that  he  is  a  very  excitable  and  prejudiced  person, 
but  that  he  knows  it,  and  honestly  strives  against  it. 
An  author  who  always  expresses  himself  with  remark 
able  calmness  is  probably  by  nature  a  ferocious  and 
savage  man.  But  you  may  see  in  the  way  in  which  he 
restricts  himself  in  the  matter  of  adjectives,  and  in 
which  he  excludes  the  superlative  degree,  that  he  is 
making  a  determined  effort  to  put  down  his  besetting 
sin.  And  probably  he  fancies,  quite  honestly,  that  he 


CONCERNING  OLD  ENEMIES.  161 

has  finally  knocked  that  enemy  on  the  head.  The  truth 
no  doubt  is,  that  it  is  because  the  enemy  is  still  alive, 
and  occasionally  barking  and  biting,  that  it  is  kept  so 
well  in  check.  There  is  just  enough  of  the  old  beast 
surviving  to  compel  attention  to  it :  the  attention  which 
consists  in  keeping  a  foot  always  on  its  head,  and  in  oc 
casionally  giving  it  a  vehement  whack.  The  most  emi 
nent  good  qualities  in  human  beings  are  generally  formed 
by  diligent  putting  down  of  the  corresponding  evil  qual 
ities.  It  was  a  stutterer  who  became  the  greatest 
ancient  orator.  It  was  a  man  who  still  bore  on  his 
satyr  face  the  indications  of  his  old  satyr  nature  who 
became  the  best  of  heathens.  And  as  with  Socrates 
and  Demosthenes,  it  has  been  with  many  more.  If  a 
man  writes  always  very  judiciously,  rely  upon  it  he  has 
a  strong  tendency  to  foolishness ;  but  he  is  keeping  it 
tight  in  check.  If  a  man  writes  always  very  kindly 
and  charitably,  depend  upon  it  he  is  fighting  to  the 
death  a  tendency  to  bitterness  and  uncharitableness. 

A  faithful  and  earnest  preacher,  resolved  to  say  no 
more  than  he  has  known  and  felt,  and  remembering  the 
wise  words  of  Dean  Alford,  "  What  thou  hast  not  by 
suffering  bought,  presume  thou  not  to  teach,"  would 
necessarily  show  to  a  sharp  observer  a  great  deal  of 
himself  and  his  inner  being,  even  though* rigidly  avoid 
ing  the  slightest  suspicion  of  egotism  in  his  preaching ; 
and  it  need  hardly  be  said  that  egotism  is  not  to  be  tol 
erated  in  the  pulpit. 

After  you  have  in  an  essay  or  a  sermon  described  and 
condemned  some  evil  tendency  that  is  in  human  nature, 
you  are  ready  to  think  that  you  have  finally  overcome 
it.  And  after  you  have  described  and  commended  some 


162  CONCERNING  OLD  ENEMIES. 

good  disposition,  you  are  ready  to  think  that  you  have 
attained  it,  and  that  you  will  not  lose  it  again.  And  for 
the  time,  if  you  be  an  honest  man,  you  have  smashed  the 
foe,  you  have  gained  the  vantage  ground.  But,  woe  's 
me,  the  good  disposition  dies  away,  and  the  foe  gradual 
ly  revives  and  struggles  to  his  legs  again.  Let  us  not 
fancy  that  because  we  have  been  (as  we  fancied)  once 
right,  we  shall  never  go  wrong.  We  must  be  always 
watchful.  The  enemy  that  seemed  most  thoroughly 
beaten  may  (apart  from  God's  grace)  beat  us  yet.  The 
publican,  when  he  went  up  to  the  temple  to  pray,  ex 
pressed  himself  in  a  fashion  handed  down  to  all  ages 
with  the  imprimatur  upon  it.  Yet,  for  all  his  speaking 
so  fairly,  the  day  might  come  when,  having  grown  a  re 
formed  character  and  gained  general  approbation,  he 
would  stand  in  a  conspicuous  place,  and  thank  God  that 
he  was  not  as  other  men.  Let  us  trust  that  day  never 
came.  Yet,  if  the  publican  had  said  to  himself,  as  he 
went  down  to  his  house,  Now  I  have  attained  an  excel 
lent  pitch  of  morality ;  I  am  all  right ;  I  am  a  model 
for  future  generations,  —  that  day  would  be  very  likely 
to  come. 

It  is  a  humiliating  and  discouraging  sight  to  behold  a 
man  plainly  succumbing  to  an  enemy  which  you  fancied 
he  had  long  gpt  over.  You  may  have  seen  an  individ 
ual  of  more  than  middle  age  making  a  fool  of  himself 
by  carrying  on  absurd  flirtations  with  young  girls,  who 
were  babies  in  long-clothes  when  he  first  was  spoony. 
You  would  have  said,  looking  at  such  a  man's  outward 
aspect,  and  knowing  something  of  his  history,  that  years 
had  brought  this  compensation  for  what  they  had  taken 
away,  that  he  would  not  make  a  conspicuous  ass  of 


CONCERNING  OLD  ENEMIES.  163 

himself  any  more.  But  the  old  enemy  is  too  much  for 
him ;  and  O  how  long  that  man's  ears  would  appear,  if 
the  inner  ass  could  be  represented  outwardly  !  You 
may  have  seen  such  a  one,  after  passing  through  a  dis 
cipline  which  you  would  have  expected  to  sober  him, 
evincing  a  frantic  exhilaration  in  the  prospect  of  his 
third  marriage.  And  you  may  have  witnessed  a  per 
son  evincing  a  high  degree  of  a  folly  he  had  unspar 
ingly  scourged  in  others.  I  have  beheld,  in  old  folk, 
manifestations  of  absurdity  all  very  well  in  the  very 
young,  which  suggested  to  me  the  vision  of  a  stiff, 
spavined,  lame,  broken-down  old  hack,  fit  only  for  the 
knacker,  trying  to  jauntily  scamper  about  in  a  field  with 
a  set  of  spirited,  fresh  young  colts.  And  looking  at  the 
spectacle,  I  have  reflected  on  the  true  statement  of  the 
Venerable  Bede,  that  there  are  no  fools  like  old  fools. 

But  here  it  may  be  said,  that  we  are  not  to  suppose 
that  a  thing  is  wrong,  unless  it  can  bear  to  be  looked 
back  on  in  cold  blood.  Many  a  word  is  spoken,  and 
many  a  deed  done,  and  fitly  too,  in  the  warmth  of  the 
moment,  which  will  not  bear  the  daylight  of  a  time 
when  the  excitement  is  over.  Mr.  Caudle  was  indignant 
when  his  wife  reminded  him  of  his  sayings  before  mar 
riage.  They  sounded  foolish  now  in  Caudle's  ears.  This 
did  not  suffice  to  show  that  those  sayings  were  not  very 
fit  at  the  time  ;  nor  does  it  prove  that  the  tendency  to 
say  many  things  under  strong  feeling  is  an  enemy  to  be 
put  down.  You  have  said,  with  a  trembling  voice,  and 
with  the  tear  in  your  eye,  things  which  are  no  discredit  to 
you,  though  you  might  not  be  disposed  to  say  the  like  ^just 
after  coming  out  of  your  bath  in  the  morning.  You 
needed  to  be  warmed  up  to  a  certain  pitch ;  and  then  the 


164  CONCERNING  OLD  ENEMIES. 

spark  was  struck  off.  And  only  a  very  malicious  or  a 
very  stupid  person  would  remind  you  of  these  things 
when  you  are  not  in  a  correspondent  vein. 

And  now  that  we  have  had  this  general  talk  about 
these  old  enemies,  let  us  go  on  to  look  at  some  of  them 
individually.  It  may  do  us  good  to  poke  up  a  few  of 
the  beasts,  and  to  make  them  arise  and  walk  about  in 
their  full  ugliness,  and  then  to  smite  them  on  the  head 
as  with  a  hammer.  Let  this  be  a  new  slaying  of  the 
slain,  who  never  can  be  slain  too  often. 

Perhaps  you  may  not  agree  with  me  when  I  say  that 
one  of  these  beasts  is  Ambition.  I  mean  unscrupulous 
self-seeking.  You  resolved,  long  ago,  to  give  no  harbor 
to  that,  and  so  to  exclude  the  manifold  evils  that  came 
of  it.  You  determined  that  you  would  resolutely  refuse 
to  scheme,  or  push,  or  puff,  or  hide  your  honest  opinions, 
or  dodge  in  any  way,  for  the  purpose  of  getting  on.  You 
know  how  eager  some  people  are  to  let  their  light  shine 
before  men,  to  the  end  that  men  may  think  what  clever 
fellows  those  people  are.  You  know  how  anxious  some 
men  are  to  set  themselves  right  in  newspapers  and  the 
like,  and  to  stand  fair  (as  they  call  it)  with  the  public. 
You  know  how  some  men,  when  they  do  any  good  work, 
have  recourse  to  means  highly  analogous  to  the  course 
adopted  by  a  class  of  persons  long  ago,  who  sounded  a 
trumpet  before  them  in  the  streets  to  call  attention  to 
their  charitable  deeds.  I  know  individuals  who  con 
stantly  sound  their  own  trumpet,  and  that  a  very  brazen 
one,  — sound  it  in  conversation,  in  newspaper  paragraphs, 
in  advertisements,  in  speeches  at  public  meetings.  But 
you,  an  honest  and  modest  person,  were  early  disgusted 


CONCERNING  OLD  ENEMIES.  165 

by  that  kind  of  thing,  and  you  determined  that  you 
would  do  your  duty  quietly  and  faithfully,  spending  all 
your  strength  upon  your  work,  and  not  sparing  a  large 
per  centage  of  it  for  the  trumpet.  You  resolved  that 
you  would  never  admit  the  thought  of  setting  yourself 
more  favorably  before  your  fellow-creatures.  You  learned 
to  look  your  humble  position  in  the  face,  and  to  discard 
the  idea  of  getting  any  mortal  to  think  you  greater  or 
better  than  you  are.  Yes,  you  hope  that  the  petty  self- 
seeking,  which  keeps  some  men  ever  on  the  strut  and 
stretch,  has  been  outgrown  by  you ;  yet  if  you  would  be 
safe  from  one  of  the  most  contemptible  foes  of  all  moral 
manhood,  you  must  keep '  your  club  in  your  hand,  and 
every  now  and  then  quiet  the  creature  by  giving  it  a 
heavy  blow  on  the  head.  St.  Paul  tells  us  that  he  had 
"  learned  to  be  content."  It  cost  him  effort.  It  cost  him 
time.  It  was  not  natural.  He  came  down,  we  may  be 
sure,  with  many  a  heavy  stroke  on  the  innate  disposition 
to  repine  when  things  did  not  go  in  the  way  he  wanted 
them.  And  that  is  what  we  must  do. 

As  you  look  back  now,  it  is  likely  enough  that  you 
recall  a  time  when  self-seeking  seemed  thoroughly  dead 
in  you.  You  were  not  very  old,  perhaps,  yet  you  fancied 
that  (by  God's  help)  you  had  outgrown  ambition.  You 
did  your  work  as  well  as  you  could,  and  in  the  evening 
you  sat  in  your  easy-chair  by  the  fireside,  looking  not 
without  interest  at  the  feverish  race  of  worldly  compe 
tition,  yet  free  from  the  least  thought  of  running  in  it. 
As  for  thinking  of  your  own  eminence,  or  imagining  that 
any  one  would  take  the  trouble  of  talking  about  you, 
that  never  entered  your  mind.  And  as  you  beheld  the 
eager  pushing  of  other  men,  and  their  frantic  endeavors 


166  CONCERNING  OLD  ENEMIES. 

to  keep  themselves  before  the  human  race,  you  wondered 
what  worldly  inducement  would  lead  you  to  do  the  like. 
But  did  you  always  keep  in  that  happy  condition  ?  Did 
you  not,  now  and  then,  feel  some  little  waking  up  of  the 
old  thing,  and  become  aware  that  you  were  being  drawn 
into  the  current  ?  If  so,  let  us  hope  that  you  resolutely 
came  out  of  it,  and  that  you  found  quiet  in  the  peaceful 
backwater,  apart  from  that  horrible  feverish  stream. 

There  is  another  old  enemy,  a  two-headed  monster, 
that  is  not  done  with  when  it  has  been  killed  once.  It 
is  a  near  relative  of  the  last :  it  is  the  ugly  creature 
Self-Conceit  and  Envy.  I  call  it  a  two-headed  monster, 
rather  than  two  monsters  ;  it  is  a  double  manifestation 
of  one  evil  principle.  Self-conceit  is  the  principle  as  it 
looks  at  yourself ;  Envy  is  the  same  thing  as  it  looks  at 
other  men.  I  fear  it  must  be  admitted  that  there  is  in 
human  nature  a  disposition  to  talk  bitterly  of  people 
who  are  more  eminent  and  successful  than  yourself,  and 
though  you  expel  it  with  a  pitchfork,  that  old  enemy 
will  come  back  again.  This  disposition  exists  in  many 
walks  of  life.  A  Lord  Chancellor  has  left  on  record 
his  opinion,  that  nowhere  is  there  so  much  envy  and 
jealousy  as  among  the  members  of  the  English  bar. 
A  great  actor  has  declared  that  nowhere  is  there  so 
much  as  among  actors  and  actresses.  Several  authors 
have  maintained  that  no  human  beings  are  so  bitter  at 
seeing  one  of  themselves  get  on  a  little,  as  literary  folk. 
And  a  popular  preacher  has  been  heard  to  say  that 
envy  and  detraction  go  their  greatest  length  among 
preachers.  Let  us  hope  that  the  last  statement  is  er 
roneous.  But  I  fear  that  these  testimonies,  coming 


CONCERNING  OLD  ENEMIES.  167 

from  quarters  so  various,  lead  to  the  conclusion  that 
envy  and  detraction  (which  imply  self-conceit)  are  too 
natural  and  common  everywhere.  You  may  have 
heard  a  number  of  men  talking  about  one  man  in  their 
own  vocation  who  had  got  a  good  deal  ahead  of  them, 
and  who  never  had  done  them  any  harm,  except  thus 
getting  ahead  of  them ;  and  you  may  have  been  amazed 
at  the  awful  animosity  evinced  towards  the  successful 
man.  But  success  in  others  is  a  thing  which  some 
mortals  cannot  forgive.  You  may  have  known  people 
savagely  abuse  a  man  because  he  set  up  a  carriage,  or 
because  he  moved  to  a  finer  house,  or  because  he  bought 
an  estate  in  the  country.  You  remember  the  outburst 
which  followed  when  Macaulay  dated  a  letter  from 
Windsor  Castle.  Of  course,  the  true  cause  of  the  out 
burst  was  that  Macaulay  should  have  been  at  Windsor 
Castle  at  all.  Let  us  be  thankful,  my  friend,  that  such 
an  eminent  distinction  is  not  likely  to  happen  either  to 
you  or  me;  we  have  each  acquaintances  who  would 
never  forgive  us  if  it  did.  What  a  raking  up  of  all 
the  sore  points  in  your  history  would  follow,  if  the  Queen 
were  to  ask  you  to  dinner !  And  if  you  should  ever 
succeed  to  a  fortune,  what  unspeakable  bitterness  would 
be  awakened  in  the  hearts  of  Mr.  Snarling  and  Miss 
Limejuice  !  If  their  malignant  glances  could  lame  your 
horses  as  you  drive  by  them  with  that  fine  new  pair,  the 
horses  would  limp  home  with  great  difficulty ;  and  if 
their  eyes  could  set  your  grand  house  on  fire,  imme 
diately  on  the  new  furniture  going  in,  a  heavy  loss  would 
fall  either  upon  you  or  the  insurance  company. 

But  this  will  not  do.     As  you  read  these  lines,  my 
friend,  you  picture  yourself  as  the  person  who  attains 


168  CONCERNING  OLD  ENEMIES. 

the  eminence  and  succeeds  to  the  fortune  ;  and  you 
picture  Miss  Limejuice  and  Mr.  Snarling  as  two  of  your 
neighbors.  But  what  I  desire  is,  that  you  should  change 
the  case  ;  imagine  your  friend  Smith  preferred  before 
you,  and  consider  whether  there  would  not  be  some 
thing  of  the  Snarling  tendency  in  yourself.  Of  course, 
you  would  not  suffer  it  to  manifest  itself;  but  it  is  there, 
and  needs  to  be  put  down.  And  it  needs  to  be  put  down 
more  than  once.  You  will  now  and  then  be  vexed  and 
mortified  to  find  that,  after  fancying  you  had  quite  made 
up  your  mind  to  certain  facts,  you  are  far  from  really 
having  done  so.  Well,  you  must  just  try  again.  You 
must  look  for  help  where  it  is  always  to  be  found.  And 
in  the  long  run  you  will  succeed.  It  will  be  painful, 
after  you  fancied  you  had  weeded  out  self-conceit  and 
envy  from  your  nature,  to  find  yourself  some  day  talking 
in  a  bitter  and  ill-set  way  about  some  man  or  some  woman 
whose  real  offence  is  merely  having  been  more  pros 
perous  than  yourself.  You  thought  you  had  got  beyond 
that.  But  it  is  all  for  your  good  to  be  reminded  that 
the  old  root  of  bitterness  is  there  yet ;  that  you  are 
never  done  with  it ;  that  you  must  be  always  cutting  it 
down.  A  gardener  might  as  justly  suppose  that  because 
he  has  mown  down  the  grass  of  a  lawn  very  closely  to 
day,  the  grass  will  never  grow  up  and  need  mowing 
again,  as  we  fancy  that  because  we  have  unsparingly  put 
down  an  evil  tendency  within  us,  we  shall  have  no  more 
trouble  with  it. 

Did  nature  give  you,  my  friend,  or  education  develope 
in  you,  a  power  of  saying  or  writing  severe  things, 
which  might  stick  into  people  as  the  little  darts  stick 
into  the  bull  at  a  Spanish  bull-fight?  I  believe  that 


CONCEKNING  OLD  ENEMIES.  169 

there  are  few  persons  who  might  not,  if  their  heart 
would  let  them,  acquire  the  faculty  of  producing  dis 
agreeable  things,  expressed  with  more  or  less  of  neatness 
and  felicity.  And  in  the  case  of  the  rare  man  here  and 
there,  who  says  his  ill-set  saying  with  epigrammatic 
point,  like  the  touch  of  a  rapier,  the  ill-setness  may  be 
excused,  because  the  thing  is  so  gracefully  said.  We 
would  not  wish  that  tigers  should  be  exterminated  ;  but 
it  is  to  be  desired  that  they  should  be  very  few.  Let 
there  be  spared  a  specimen,  here  and  there,  of  the  grace 
ful,  agile,  ferocious  savage.  But  you,  my  reader,  were 
no  great  hand  at  epigrams,  though  you  were  ready 
enough  with  your  ill-set  remark  ;  and  after  some  ex 
perience,  you  concluded  that  there  is  something  better  in 
this  world  than  to  say  things,  however  cleverly,  that  are 
intended  to  give  pain.  And  so  you  determined  to  cut 
that  off,  and  to  go  upon  the  kindly  tack  ;  to  say  a  good 
and  cheering  word  whenever  you  had  the  opportunity ; 
to  be  ready  with  a  charitable  interpretation  of  what  peo 
ple  do ;  and  never  to  utter  or  to  write  a  word  that  could 
vex  a  fellow-creature,  who  (you  may  be  sure)  has  quite 
enough  to  vex  him  without  your  adding  anything. 
Perhaps  you  did  all  this,  rather  overdoing  the  thing. 
Ill-set  people  are  apt  to  overdo  the  thing  when  they  go 
in  for  kindliness  and  geniality.  But  some  day,  having 
met  some  little  offence,  the  electricity  that  had  been 
storing  up  during  that  season  of  repression,  burst  out  in 
a  flash  of  what  may,  by  a  strong  figure,  be  called  forked 
lightning ;  the  old  enemy  had  got  the  mastery  again. 
And  indeed  a  hasty  temper,  founding  as  it  does  mainly 
on  irritability  of  the  nervous  system,  is  never  quite  got 
over.  It  may  be  much  aggravated  by.  yielding  to  it, 


170  CONCERNING  OLD  ENEMIES. 

and  much  abated  by  constant  restraint ;  but  unless  the 
beast  be  perpetually  seen  to,  it  is  sure  to  be  bursting 
out  now  and  then.  Socrates,  you  remember,  said  that 
his  temper  was  naturally  hasty  and  bad,  but  that  phi 
losophy  had  cured  him.  I  believe  it  needs  something 
much  more  efficacious  than  any  human  philosophy  to 
work  such  a  cure.  No  doubt,  you  may  diligently  train 
yourself  to  see  what  is  to  be  said  in  excuse  of  the 
offences  given  you  by  your  fellow-creatures,  and  to 
look  at  the  case  as  it  appears  from  their  point  of  view. 
This  will  help.  But  .though  ill-temper,  left  to  its  natural 
growth,  will  grow  always  worse,  there  is  a  point  at 
which  it  has  been  found  to  mend.  When  the  nervous 
system  grows  less  sensitive  through  age,  hastiness  of 
temper  sometimes  goes.  The  old  enemy  is  weakened  ; 
the  beast  has  been  (so  to  speak)  hamstrung.  You  will 
be  told  that  the  thing  which  mainly  impressed  persons 
who  saw  the  great  Duke  of  Wellington  in  the  last 
months  of  his  life,  was  what  a  mild,  gentle  old  man  he 
was.  Of  course,  every  one  knows  that  he  was  not 
always  so.  The  days  were,  when  his  temper  was  hot 
and  hasty  enough. 

And  thus  thinking  of  physical  influence,  let  us  remem 
ber  that  what  is  vulgarly  called  nervousness  is  an  ene 
my  which  many  men  know  to  their  cost  is  not  to  be  got 
over.  The  firmest  assurance  that  you  have  done  a 
thing  many  times,  and  so  should  be  able  to  do  it  once 
more,  may  not  suffice  to  enable  you  to  look  forward  to 
doing  it  without  a  vague  tremor  and  apprehension. 
There  are  human  beings,  all  whose  work  is  done  with 
out  any  very  great  nervous  strain ;  there  are  others  in 
whose  vocation  there  come  many  times  that  put  their 


CONCERNING  OLD  ENEMIES.  171 

whole  nature  upon  the  stretch.  And  these  times  test  a 
man.  You  know  a  horse  may  be  quite  lame,  while  yet 
it  does  not  appear  in  walking.  Trot  the  creature 
smartly,  and  the  lameness  becomes  manifest.  In  like 
manner  a  man  may  be  nervous,  particular,  crotchety, 
superstitious,  while  yet  this  may  not  appear  till  you  trot 
him  sharply.  Put  him  at  some  work  that  must  be  done 
with  the  full  stretch  of  his  powers,  and  then  you  will 
see  that  he  has  got  little  odd  ways  of  his  own.  I  do 
not  know  what  is  the  sensation  of  going  into  battle, 
and  finding  oneself  under  fire  ;  but  short  of  that,  I  think 
the  greatest  strain  to  which  a  human  being  is  usually 
subjected  is  that  of  the  preacher.  A  little  while  ago, 
I  was  talking  with  a  distinguished  clergyman,  and  being 
desirous  of  comparing  his  experience  with  that  of  his 
juniors,  I  asked  him,  — 

1.  Whether,    in    walking   to   church    on    Sunday   to 
preach,  he  did  not  always  walk  on  the  same  side  of  the 
street  ?     Whether  he  would  not  feel  uncomfortable,  and 
as   if  something   were   going   wrong,  if  he  made  any 
change  ? 

2.  Whether  when  waiting  in  the  vestry,  the  minute 
or  two  before  the  beadle  should  come  to  precede  him 
into  church,  he  did  not  always  stand  on  the  same  spot  ? 
Whether  it  would  not  put  him  out  of  gear,  to  vary  from 
that? 

My  eminent  friend  answered  all  these  questions  in 
the  affirmative.  Of  course  there  are  a  great  many  men 
to  whom  I  should  no  more  have  thought  of  proposing 
such  questions  than  I  should  think  of  proposing  them  to 
a  rhinoceros.  Such  men,  probably,  have  no  little  ways ; 
and  if  they  had,  they  .would  not  admit  that  they  had. 


172  CONCERNING  OLD  ENEMIES. 

But  my  friend  is  so  very  able  a  man,  and  so  very  sin 
cere  a  man,  that  he  had  no  reason  to  be  afraid  of  any 
one  thinking  him  little,  though  he  acknowledged  to  hav 
ing  his  little  fancies.  And  indeed,  when  you  come  to 
know  people  well,  you  will  find  that  they  have  all  ways 
that  are  quite  analogous  to  Johnson's  touching  the  tops 
of  all  the  posts  as  he  walked  London  streets.  They 
would  not  exactly  say,  that  they  are  afraid  of  anything 
"happening  to  them  if  they  deviated  from  the  old  track, 
but  they  think  it  just  as  well  to  keep  on  the  safe  side, 
by  not  deviating  from  it. 

Possibly  there  was  a  period  in  your  life  in  which  you 
had  no  objection  to  get  into  controversies  upon  political 
or  religious  subjects  with  other  men ;  which  controver 
sies  gradually  grew  angry,  and  probably  ended  in  mu 
tual  abuse,  but  assuredly  not  in  conviction.  But  having 
remarked,  in  the  case  of  other  controversialists,  what 
fools  they  invariably  made  of  themselves;  having  re 
marked  their  ludicrous  exaggeration  of  the  importance 
of  their  dispute,  and  the  malice  and  disingenuousness 
with  which  they  earned  on  their  debate  (more  espe 
cially  if  they  were  clergymen)  ;  having  remarked,  in 
brief,  how  very  little  a  controversialist  ever  looks  like  a 
Christian,  —  you  turned,  in  loathing,  from  the  whole 
thing,  and  resolved  that  you  would  never  get  into  a  con 
troversy,  public  or  private,  with  any  mortal  upon  any 
subject  any  more.  Stick  to  that  resolution,  my  friend  ; 
it  is  a  good  one.  But  you  will  occasionally  be  tempted  to 
break  it.  Whenever  the  old  enemy  assails  you,  just  think 
what  a  demagogue  or  agitator,  political  or  religious, 
looks  like  in  the  eyes  of  all  sensible  and  honest  men  I 
Perhaps  you  had  a  tendency  to  be  suspicious,  and 


CONCEKNING  OLD  ENEMIES.  173 

you  have  broken  yourself  of  it.  Perhaps  your  tempta 
tion  was  to  be  easily  worried  by  little  cross-accidents, 
and  to  get  needlessly  excited.  Perhaps  your  temptation 
was  to  laziness,  to  putting  off  duty  till  to-morrow,  to 
untidiness,  to  moral  cowardice.  Whatever  it  was,  my 
friend,  never  think  yourself  so  cured  of  an  evil  habit, 
that  you  may  cease  to  mow  it  down.  If  Demosthenes 
had  left  off  attending  to  his  speaking,  he  would  have 
relapsed  into  his  old  evil  ways.  If  St.  Paul,  after 
having  learned  to  be  content,  had  ceased  to  see  to  that, 
he  would  gradually  have  grown  a  grumbler. 

I  am  going  to  close  this  little  procession  of  old 
enemies  which  has  passed  before  our  eyes  by  naming 
a  large  and  general  one.  It  is  Folly.  My  friend,  if 
you  have  attained  to  any  measure  of  common  sense 
now,  you  know  what  a  tremendous  fool  you  were  once. 
If  you  do  not  know  that,  then  you  are  a  fool  still.  Ah, 
reader,  wise  and  good,  you  know  all  the  weakness,  the 
silliness,  the  absurd  fancies  and  dreams,  that  have  been 
yours.  I  presume  that  you  are  ready  to  give  up  a  great 
part  of  your  earlier  life :  you  have  not  a  word  to  say 
for  it.  All  your  desire  is  that  it  should  in  charity  be 
forgotten.  But  surely  you  will  not  now  make  a  fool 
of  yourself  any  more.  There  shall  be  no  more  now  of 
the  hasty  talking,  the  vaporing  about  your  own  impor 
tance,  the  idiotic  sayings  and  doings  you  wish  you  could 
bury  in  Lethe  ;  and  which  you  may  be  very  sure  certain 
of  your  kind  friends  carefully  remember  and  occasionally 
recall.  But  now  and  then  the  logic  of  facts  will  con 
vince  you  that  the  old  enemy  is  not  quite  annihilated 
yet,  and  you  say  something  you  regret  the  moment  it  is 
uttered;  you  do  something  which  indicates  that  you 
have  lost  vour  head  for  the  time. 


174  CONCERNING  OLD  ENEMIES. 

Let  it  be  said,  in  conclusion,  as  the  upshot  of  the 
whole  matter,  that  the  wise  man  will  never  think  he  is 
safe  till  he  has  reached  a  certain  place  where  no  enemy 
can  assail  him  more.  I  beg  my  friend  Mr.  Snarling  to 
take  notice,  that  I  do  not  pretend  to  have  pointed  out 
in  these  pages  the  worst  of  those  old  enemies  that  get 
up  again  and  run  at  us  after  they  had  been  knocked  on 
the  head  once,  and  more  than  once. 

If  this  had  been  a  sermon,  I  should  have  given  you  a 
very  different  catalogue,  and  one  that  would  have 
awakened  more  serious  thoughts.  Not  but  that  those 
which  have  been  named  are  well  worth  thinking  of. 
The  day  will  never  come,  in  this  world,  on  which  it  will 
be  safe  for  us  to  sit  down  in  perfect  security,  and  to  say 
to  ourselves,  now  we  need  keep  no  watch ;  we  may  (in 
a  moral  sense)  draw  the  charge  from  our  revolver  be 
cause  it  will  not  be  needed ;  we  may  fall  asleep,  and 
nothing  will  meddle  with  us  the  while.  For  all  around 
us,  my  friend,  are  the  old  enemies  of  our  souls  and  our 
salvation  ;  some  aiming  at  nothing  more  than  to  make 
us  disagreeable  and  repulsive,  petty  and  jealous  ;  others 
aiming  at  nothing  less  than  to  make  us  unfit  for  the  only 
home  where  we  can  know  perfect  rest  and  peace  ;  some 
stealing  upon  us  more  stealthily,  silently,  fatally,  than 
ever  the  Indian  crept  through  the  darkness  of  night 
upon  the  traveller  nodding  over  his  watch-fire ;  some 
coming  down  upon  us,  strong  and  sudden  as  the  tiger's 
agile  spring.  Well,  we  know  what  to  do  :  we  must 
watch  and  pray.  And  the  time  will  come  at  length 
when  the  pack  of  wolves  shall  be  lashed  off  for  ever ; 
when  the  evil  within  us  shall  be  killed  outright,  and 
beyond  all  reviving ;  and  when  the  evil  around  us  shall 
be  gone. 


CHAPTER    X. 

AT   THE   CASTLE:   WITH   SOME   THOUGHTS   ON 
MICHAEL   SCOTT'S  FAMILIAR   SPIRIT. 


OT  on  a  study-table  in  a  back  parlor  in  a 
great  city  shall  these  little  blue  pages  be 
covered  with  written  characters.  Every 
word  shall  be  written  in  the  open  air.  The 
page  shall  be  lighted  by  sunshine  that  comes  through 
no  glass,  but  which  is  tempered  by  coming  through 
masses  of  green  leaves.  And  this  essay  is  not  to  be 
composed ;  not  to  be  screwed  out,  to  use  the  figure  of 
Mr.  Thackeray  ;  not  to  be  pumped  out,  to  use  the  figure 
of  Festus.  It  shall  grow  without  an  effort.  When  any 
thought  occurs,  the  pencil  shall  note  it  down.  No 
thought  shall  be  hurried  in  its  coming. 

You  know  how  after  a  good  many  months  of  constant 
work,  with  the  neck  always  at  the  collar,  you  grow 
wearied  and  easily  worried.  Little  things  become 
burdensome  ;  and  the  best  of  work  is  felt  as  a  task. 
You  cannot  reason  yourself  out  of  that ;  ten  days'  rest 
is  the  thing  that  will  do  it.  Be  thankful  if  then  you 
can  have  such  a  season  of  quiet  in  as  green  and  shady 
a  nook  of  country  as  mortal  eyes  could  wish  to  see ;  in 
a  nook  like  this,  amid  green  grass  and  green  trees,  and 


176  AT   THE   CASTLE  : 

the  wild  flowers  of  the  early  summer.     For  this  is  little 
more  than  midway  in  the  pleasant  month  of  May. 

It  is  a  very  warm,  sunshiny  morning.  This  is  a  little 
open  glade  of  rich  grass,  lighted  up  with  daisies  and 
buttercups.  The  little  glade  is  surrounded  by  large 
forest-trees  ;  under  the  trees  there  is  a  blaze  of  prim 
roses  and  wild  hyacinths.  A  soft  west  wind,  laden 
with  the  fragrance  of  lilac  and  apple  blossoms,  wakes 
the  gentlest  of  sounds  (in  a  more  expressive  language 
than  ours  it  would  have  been  called  susurrus)  in  the 
topmost  branches,  gently  swaying  to  and  fro.  The 
swaying  branches  cast  a  flecked  and  dancing  shadow  on 
the  grass  below.  Midway  the  little  glade  is  beyond  the 
shadow  ;  and  there  the  grass,  in  the  sunbeams,  has  a 
tinge  of  gold.  A  river  runs  by,  with  a  ceaseless  mur 
mur  over  the  warm  stones.  Look  to  the  right  hand, 
and  there,  over  the  trees,  two  hundred  yards  off,  you 
may  see  a  gray  and  red  tower  motionless  above  the 
waving  branches  ;  and  lower  down,  hardly  surmounting 
the  wood,  a  stretch  of  massive  wall,  with  huge  but 
tresses.  Tower  and  wall  crown  a  lofty  knoll,  which 
the  river  encircles,  making  it  a  peninsula.  Wallflower 
grows  in  the  crannies ;  a  little  wild  apple-tree,  covered 
with  white  blossoms,  crowns  a  detached  fragment  of  a 
ruined  gateway;  sweetbrier  grows  at  the  base  of  the 
ancient  walls ;  ivy  and  honeysuckle  climb  up  them ;  and 
where  great  fragments  of  fallen  wall  testify  to  the  excel 
lence  of  the  mortar  of  the  eleventh  century,  wild  roses 
have  roo.ted  themselves  in  masses,  which  are  now  only 
green.  That  is  THE  CASTLE,  all  that  can  be  seen  of  it 
from  this  point.  There  is  more  to  be  said  of  it  here 
after.  Hard  by  this  spot,  two  little  children  are  sitting 
on  the  grass,  to  whom  some  one  is  reading  a  story. 


MICHAEL  SCOTT'S  FAMILIAR  SPIRIT.  177 

The  wise  man  will  never  weary  of  looking  at  green 
grass  and  green  trees.  It  is  an  unspeakable  refresh 
ment  to  the  eye  and  the  mind ;  and  the  daily  pressure 
of  occupation  cannot  touch  one  here.  One  wonders  that 
human  beings  who  always  live  amid  such  scenery  do 
not  look  more  like  it.  But  some  people  are  utterly 
unimpressionable  by  the  influences  of  outward  scenery. 
You  may  know  men  who  have  lived  for  many  years 
where  Nature  has  done  her  best  with  wood  and  rock 
and  river ;  and  even  when  you  become  well  acquainted 
with  them,  you  cannot  discover  the  faintest  trace  in 
their  talk  or  in  their  feeling  of  the  mightily  powerful 
touch  (as  it  would  be  to  many)  which  has  been  unceas 
ingly  laid  upon  them  through  all  that  time.  Or  you 
may  have  beheld  a  vacuous  person  at  a  picnic  party, 
who,  amid  traces  of  God's  handiwork  that  should  make 
men  hold  their  breath,  does  but  pass  from  the  occupation 
of  fatuously  flirting  with  a  young  woman  like  himself,  to 
furiously  abusing  the  servants  for  not  sufficiently  cooling 
the  wine. 

A  great  many  of  the  highly  respectable  people,  we 
all  know,  are  entirely  in  the  case  of  the  hero  of  that 
exquisite  poem  of  "Wordsworth's,  which  Jeffrey  never 
could  bring  himself  to  like  :  — 

"  But  Nature  ne'er  could  find  her  way 
Into  the  heart  of  Peter  Bell. 

"  In  vain,  through  every  changing  year, 

Did  Nature  lead  him  as  before  ; 
A  primrose  by  a  river's  brim 
A  yellow  primrose  was  to  him, 

And  it  was  nothing  more." 

A  human  being  ought  to  be  very  thankful  if  his  dis- 

8*  L 


178  AT  THE  CASTLE: 

position  be  such  that  he  heartily  enjoys  green  grass  and 
green  trees ;  for  there  are  clever  men  who  do  not.  In 
a  little  while  I  shall  tell  you  of  an  extraordinary  and 
anomalous  taste  expressed  on  that  subject  by  one  of  the 
cleverest  men  I  know.  If  a  man  has  a  thousand  a 
year,  and  his  next  neighbor  five  hundred,  and  if  the 
man  with  five  hundred  makes  his  income  go  just  as  far 
as  the  larger  one  (and  an  approximation  to  doing  so 
may  be  made  by  good  management),  it  is  plain  that 
these  two  mortals  are,  in  respect  to  income,  on  the  same 
precise  footing.  The  poorer  man  gets  so  much  more 
enjoyment  out  of  his  yearly  revenue  as  makes  up  for 
the  fact  that  the  richer  man's  revenue  is  twice  as  great. 
There  is  a  like  compensation  provided  for  the  lack  of 
material  advantages  in  the  case  of  many  men,  through 
their  intense  appreciation  of  the  beauty  of  natural 
scenery,  and  of  very  simple  things.  A  rich  man  may 
possess  the  acres,  with  their  yearly  rental;  a  poor 
man,  such  as  a  poet,  a  professor,  a  schoolmaster,  a  cler 
gyman,  or  the  like,  may  possess  the  landscape  which 
these  acres  make  up,  to  the  utter  exclusion  of  the  landed 
proprietor.  Perhaps,  friendly  reader,  God  has  not  given 
you  the  earthly  possessions  which  it  has  pleased  Him 
to  give  to  some  whom  you  know,  but  He  may  have 
given  you  abundant  recompense  by  giving  you  the  power 
of  getting  more  enjoyment  out  of  little  things  than  many 
other  men.  You  live  in  a  little  cottage,  and  your  neigh 
bor  in  a  grand  castle ;  you  have  a  small  collection  of 
books,  and  your  neighbor  a  great  one  of  fine  editions  in 
sumptuous  bindings  and  in  carved  oak  cases ;  yet  you 
may  have  so  great  delight  in  your  snug  house,  and  your 
familiar  volumes,  that  in  regard  of  actual  enjoyment  you 


MICHAEL  SCOTT'S  FAMILIAR  SPIRIT.  179 

may  be  the  more  enviable  man.  A  green  field  with  a 
large  oak  in  the  middle,  a  hedge  of  blossoming  haw 
thorn,  a  thatched  cottage  under  a  great  maple,  twenty- 
square  yards  of  velvety  turf,  —  how  really  happy  such 
things  can  make  some  simple  folk ! 

Of  course  it  occurs  to  one  that  the  same  people  who 
get  more  enjoyment  out  of  little  pleasures  will  get  more 
suffering  out  of  anything  painful.  Because  your  tongue 
is  more  sensitive  than  the  palm  of  your  hand,  it  is  aware 
of  the  flavor  of  a  pineapple  which  your  palm  would 
ignore,  but  it  is  also  liable  to  know  the  taste  of  assa- 
foetida,  of  which  your  palm  would  be  unconscious.  The 
supersensitive  nervous  system  is  finely  strung  to  discern 
pain  as  well  as  pleasure.  No  one  knows,  but  the  over 
particular  person,  what  a  pure  misery  it  is  to  go  into  an 
untidy  room,  if  it  be  your  own.  There  are  people  who 
suffer  as  much  in  having  a  tooth  filed  as  others  in  losing 
a  limb.  A  Frenchman,  some  years  since,  committed 
suicide,  leaving  a  wrritten  paper  to  say  he  had  done  so 
because  life  was  rendered  unendurable  through  his  being 
so  much  bitten  by  fleas.  This  is  not  a  thing  to  smile  at. 
That  poor  man,  before  his  reason  was  upset,  had  proba 
bly  endured  torments  of  which  those  around  had  not 
the  faintest  idea.  I  have  heard  a  good  man  praised  for 
the  patience  with  which  he  bore  daily  for  weeks  the 
surgeon's  dressing  of  a  very  severe  wound.  The  good 
man  was  thought  heroic.  I  knew  him  well  enough  to 
be  sure  that  the  fact  was  that  his  nature  was  dull  and 
slow.  He  did  not  suffer  as  average  men  would  have 
suffered  under  that  infliction.  There  are  human  beings 
in  touching  whose  moral  nature  you  feel  you  are  touch 
ing  the  impenetrable  skin  of  the  hippopotamus.  There 


180  AT   THE   CASTLE: 

are  human  beings  in  touching  whose  moral  nature  you 
feel  you  are  touching  the  bare  tip  of  a  nerve.  Eager, 
anxious  men  are  prone  to  envy  imperturbable  and  slow- 
moving  men.  My  friend  Smith,  who  is  of  an  eager 
nature,  tells  me  he  looks  with  a  feeling  a  few  degrees 
short  of  veneration  on  a  massive-minded  and  immovable 
being,  who  in  telling  a  story  makes  such  long  pauses  at 
the  end  of  each  sentence  that  you  fancy  the  story  done. 
Then  poor  Smith  breaks  in  hastily  with  something  he 
wants  to  say,  but  the  massive-minded  man,  not  noticing 
him,  continues  his  parable  till  he  pauses  again  at  the 
end  of  another  sentence.  And  Smith  is  made  to  feel  as 
though  he  were  very  young. 

I  have  said  that  likings  vary  in  regard  to  such  mat 
ters  as  the  enjoyment  of  this  scene.  O  this  green  grass, 
rich,  unutterably  green,  with  the  buttercups  and  daisies, 
with  the  yellow  broom  and  the  wild  bees,  and  the  en 
vironment  of  bright  leafy  trees  that  inclose  you  round  ; 
to  think  that  there  are  people  who  do  not  care  for  you  ! 
It  was  but  yesterday,  in  a  street  of  a  famous  and  beauti 
ful  city,  I  met  my  friend  Mr.  Keene.  Keene  is  a  warm 
hearted,  magnanimous,  unselfish,  brave,  out-spoken  hu 
man  being,  as  fine  a  fellow  as  is  numbered  among  the 
clergy  of  either  side  of  the  Tweed.  Besides  these  things, 
he  is  an  admirable  debater ;  fluent,  ready,  eloquent, 
hearty,  fully  persuaded  that  he  is  right,  and  that  his 
opponents  are  invariably  wrong,  and  not  without  some 
measure  of  smartness  and  sharpness  in  expression. 
Keene  approached  me  with  a  radiant  face,  the  result 
partly  of  inherent  good  nature,  and  partly  of  a  very  hot 
summer  day.  He  had  come  to  the  city  to  take  part  in 


MICHAEL  SCOTT'S  FAMILIAR  SPIRIT.  181 

the  debates  of  the  great  ecclesiastical  council  of  a  north 
ern  country.  I  was  coming  to  this  place.  He  was 
entering  the  city,  in  fact,  for  many  days  of  deliberation 
and  debate  ;  I  was  departing  from  it  for  certain  days  of 
rest  and  recreation.  I  could  not  refrain  from  displaying 
some  measure  of  exultation  at  the  contrast  between  our 
respective  circumstances.  "  I  shall  be  lying  to-morrow," 
I  said,  "on  green  grass  under  green  trees,  while  you 
will  be  existing  "  (the  word  used  indeed  was  stewing) 
"  in  that  crowded  building,  with  its  feverish  atmosphere 
highly  charged  with  carbonic-acid  gas."  To  these  words 
Keene  replied,  with  simple  earnestness":  "  I  shall  be  quite 
happy  there ;  I  don't  care  a  straw  for  green  grass  and 
green  leaves  ! "  Such  was  the  sentiment  of  that  eminent 
man.  I  pity  him  sincerely ! 

Here  I  paused,  and  thought  for  a  little  of  the  great 
ecclesiastical  council  and  of  lesser  ecclesiastical  coun 
cils,  and  the  following  reflection  suggested  itself :  — 

Our  good  principles  are  too  often  like  Don  Quixote's 
helmet.  We  arrive  at  them  in  leisure,  in  cool  blood, 
with  an  unexcited  brain,  which  is  commonly  called  a 
clear  head ;  then  in  actual  life  they  too  commonly  fail  at 
the  first  real  trial.  Don  Quixote  made  up  his  helmet 
carefully  with  a  visor  of  pasteboard.  Then,  to  ascertain 
whether  it  was  strong  enough,  he  dealt  it  a  blow  with 
his  sword;  thereupon  it  went  to  pieces. 

In  like  manner,  in  our  better  and  more  thoughtful 
hours,  we  resolve  to  be  patient,  forgiving,  charitable, 
kind-spoken,  unsuspicious,  —  in  short  Christian,  for  that 
includes  all,  —  and  the  first  time  we  are  irritated  we  fail. 
"We  grow  very  angry  at  some  small  offence ;  we  speak 


182  AT   THE   CASTLE  : 

harshly,  we 'act  unfairly.  I  have  heard  a  really  good 
man  preach.  Afterwards  I  heard  him  speak  in  a  lesser 
ecclesiastical  council.  He  preached  (so  far  as  the  senti 
ments  expressed  went)  like  an  angel.  He  argued  like 
just  the  reverse. 

Ah,  we  make  up  our  helmets  with  pasteboard.  We 
resolve  that  henceforth  we  shall  act  on  the  most  noble 
principles.  And  the  helmets  look  very  well  so  long  as 
they  are  not  put  to  the  test.  We  fancy  ourselves  chari 
table,  forgiving,  Christian  people,  so  long  as  we  are  not 
tried.  A  stroke  with  a  sword,  and  the  helmet  goes  to 
tatters.  An  atta"ck  on  us,  a  reflection  on  us,  a  hint  that 
we  ever  did  wrong,  and  oh,  the  wretched  outburst  of 
wrath,  bitterness,  unfairness,  malignity ! 

Of  course,  the  best  of  men,  as  it  has  been  said,  are 
but  men  at  the  best.  Let  us  be  humble.  Let  there  be 
no  vain  self-confidence  ;  and  especially  let  us,  entering 
on  every  scene  that  can  possibly  try  us,  (and  when  do 
we  escape  from  such  a  scene  ?)  earnestly  ask  the  guid 
ance  of  that  Blessed  Spirit  of  Whom  is  every  good  feel 
ing  and  purpose  in  us,  and  without  Whom  our  best 
resolutions  will  snap  like  reeds  just  when  they  are 
needed  most  to  stand  firm. 

There  is  more  to  be  said  about  the  Castle.  It  is  not  a 
castle  to  which  you  go  that  you  may  enjoy  the  society 
of  dukes  and  other  nobles,  such  as  form  the  daily  asso 
ciates  of  the  working  clergy.  By  the  payment  of  a 
moderate  weekly  stipend,  this  castle  may  become  yours. 
The  castle  is  in  ruins  ;  but  a  little  corner  amid  the 
great  masses  of  crumbling  stones,  which  were  placed 
here  by  strong  hands  dead  for  eight  hundred  years,  has 


MICHAEL  SCOTT'S  FAMILIAR  SPIRIT.  183 

been  patched  up  so  as  to  make  an  unpretending  little 
dwelling ;  and  there  you  may  find  the  wainscotted 
rooms,  the  quaint  panelled  ceilings  of  mingled  timber 
and  plaster,  the  winding  turret  stairs,  the  many  secret 
doors,  of  past  centuries.  The  castle  stands  on  a  lofty 
promontory  of  no  great  extent,  which  a  little  river  en 
circles  on  two  sides,  and  which  a  deep  ravine  cuts  off 
from  the  surrounding  country  on  the  other  two  sides. 
You  approach  the  castle  over  an  arch  of  seventy  feet  in 
height,  which  spans  the  ravine.  In  former  days  it  was 
a  drawbridge.  The  bridge  runs  out  of  the  inner  court 
of  the  castle  ;  midway  in  its  length  it  turns  off  at  almost 
a  right  angle,  till  it  joins  the  bank  on  the  other  side  of 
the  ravine.  That  little  bridge  makes  a  charming  place 
to  walk  on,  and  it  is  a  great  deal  longer  than  any  quar 
ter-deck.  It  is  all  grown  over  with  masses  of  ancient 
ivy,  the  fragrance  of  a  sweetbrier  hedge  in  the  castle 
court  pervades  it  at  present ;  you  look  down  from  it  upon 
a  deep  glen,  through  which  the  little  river  flows.  The 
tops  of  the  tall  trees  are  far  beneath  you  ;  there  are 
various  plane-trees  with  their  thick  leaves.  Wherever 
you  look,  it  is  one  mass  of  rich  foliage.  Trees  fill  up 
the  ravine,  trees  clothe  the  steep  bank  on  the  other  side 
of  the  river,  trees  have  rooted  themselves  in  wonderful 
spots  in  the  old  walls,  trees  clothe  the  ascent  that  leads 
from  the  castle  to  that  little  summit  near,  crowned  with 
one  of  the  loveliest  creations  of  the  Gothic  architect's 
skill.  That  is  the  chancel  of  a  large  church,  of  which 
only  the  chancel  was  ever  built ;  and  if  you  would  behold 
a  little  chapel  of  inexpressible  perfection  and  beauty,  if 
you  would  discern  the  traces  of  the  faithful  and  loving 
toil  of  men  who  have  been  for  hundreds  of  years  in 


184  AT   THE   CASTLE : 

their  graves,  if  you  would  look  upon  ancient  stones  that 
seem  as  if  they  had  grown  and  blossomed  like  a  tree, 
then  find  out  where  that  chapel  is,  and  go  and  see  it. 

But  you  pass  over  the  bridge ;  and  under  a  ruined 
gateway,  where  part  of  a  broken  arch  hangs  over  the 
passer-by,  you  enter  the  court.  On  the  right  hand, 
ruined  walls  of  vast  thickness.  The  like  on  the  left 
hand,  but  midway  there  is  the  little  portion  that  is  habi 
table.  Enter :  pass  into  a  pretty  large  wainscotted  par 
lor  ;  look  out  of  the  windows  on  the  further  side.  You 
are  a  hundred  feet  above  the  garden  below,  —  for  on  that 
side  there  is  below  you  story  after  story  of  low-browed 
chambers,  arched  in  massive  stone,  and  lower  still,  the 
castle  wall  rises  from  the  top  of  a  precipice  of  perpen 
dicular  rock.  On  the  further  side  from  the  river,  the 
chambers  are  hewn  out  of  the  living  stone.  What  a 
view  from  the  window  of  that  parlor  first  mentioned! 
Beneath,  the  garden,  bright  now  with  blossoming  apple- 
trees,  bounded  by  the  river,  and,  beyond  the  river,  a- 
bank  of  wood  three  hundred  feet  in  height.  A  little 
window  in  a  corner  looks  down  the  course  of  the  stream ; 
there  is  a  deep  dell  of  wood,  one  thick  luxuriance  of  fo 
liage,  with  here  and  there  the  gleam  of  the  flowing  water. 

This  is  our  place  of  rest.  Add  to  all  that  has  been 
said  an  inexpressible  sense  of  a  pervading  quiet. 

Do  you  find,  when  you  come  to  a  place  where  you  are 
to  have  a  brief  holiday,  a  tendency  to  look  back  on  the 
work  you  have  been  doing,  and  to  estimate  what  it  has 
come  to  after  all?  And  have  you  found,  even  after 
many  months  of  grinding  as  hard  as  you  could,  that  it 
was  mortifying  to  see  how  little  was  the  permanent  re- 


MICHAEL  SCOTT'S  FAMILIAE  SPIRIT.  185 

• 

suit  ?  Such  seems  to  be  the  effect  of  looking  back  on 
work.  One  thinks  of  a  case  parallel  to  the  present  feel 
ing.  There  was  Jacob,  looking  back  on  a  long  life,  on 
a  hundred  and  twenty  years,  and  saying,  sincerely,  that 
his  days  had  been  few  and  evil.  Now,  in  a  blink  of 
rest,  my  friend,  look  back  on  the  results  you  have  ac 
complished  in  those  months  of  hard  work.  You  thought 
them  many  and  good  at  the  time,  now  they  seem  to  be 
no  better  than  few  and  evil.  It  is  humiliating  to  think 
how  little  permanent  result  is  got  by  a  working  day. 
To  bring  things  to  book,  to  actually  count  and  weigh 
them,  always  makes  them  look  less.  You  may  remem 
ber  a  calculation  made  by  the  elder  Disraeli,  as  to  the 
amount  of  matter  a  man  could  read  in  a  lifetime.  It  is 
very  much  less  than  you  would  have  thought,  —  perhaps 
one .  tenth  of  what  an  ordinary  person  would  guess. 
Thackeray,  in  his  days  of  matured  and  practised  power, 
thought  it  a  good  day's  work  to  write  six  of  the  little 
pages  of  Esmond.  A  distinguished  and  experienced 
author  told  me  that  he  esteemed  three  pages  of  the 
Quarterly  Review  a  good  day's  work.  Some  men  judge 
a  sermon,  which  can  be  given  in  little  more  than  half 
an  hour,  a  sufficient  result  of  the  almost  constant  thought 
of  a  week.  Six  little  pages,  as  the  sole  abiding  result 
of  a  day  on  which  the  sun  rose  and  set,  and  the  clock 
went  the  round  of  the  four-and-twenty  hours,  —  on 
which  you  took  your  bath,  and  your  breakfast,  and  read 
your  newspaper,  and  in  short  went  through  the  round 
of  employments  which  make  your  habitude  of  being. 
Six  pages,  —  skimmed  by  the  reader  in  five  minutes ! 
The  truth  is,  that  a  great  part  of  our  energy  goes  just 
to  bear  the  burden  of  the  day,  to  do  the  work  of  the 


186  AT  THE   CASTLE  : 

i 

time,  and  we  have  only  the  little  surplus  of  abiding 
possession.  The  way  to  keep  ourselves  from  getting 
mortified  and  disheartened  when  we  look  back  on  the 
remaining  result  of  all  our  work,  is  to  remember  that  we 
are  not  here  merely  to  work,  —  merely  to  produce  that 
which  shall  be  an  abiding  memorial  of  us.  It  is  well  if 
all  we  do  and  bear  is  forming  our  nature  and  character 
into  something  which  we  can  willingly  take  with  us 
when  we  go  away  from  this  life. 

This  morning  after  breakfast  I  was  sitting  on  the  par 
apet  of  the  bridge  already  mentioned,  looking  down  upon 
the  tops  of  two  plane-trees,  and  feeling  a  great  deal  the 
better  for  the  sight.  I  believe  it  does  good  to  an  ordi 
nary  mortal  to  look  down  on  the  top  of  a  large  tree,  and 
see  the  branches  gently  waving  about.  Little  outward 
phenomena  have  a  wonderful  effect  in  soothing  and  re 
freshing  the  mind.  Some  men  say  the  sight  and  sound  of 
the  sea  calms  and  cheers  them.  You  know  how  when 
a  certain  old  prophet  was  beaten  and  despairing,  the 
All-wise  thought  it  would  be  good  for  him  to  behold 
certain  sublime  manifestations  of  the  power  of  the  Al 
mighty.  We  cannot  explain  the  rationale  of  the  pro 
cess,  but  these  things  do  us  good.  A  wise  and  good 
and  most  laborious  man  told  me  that  when  he  feels  over 
worked  and  desponding,  he  flies  away  to  Chamouni  and 
looks  at  Mont  Blanc,  and  in  a  few  days  he  is  set  right. 
It  was  not  a  fanciful  man  who  said  that  there  is  scenery 
in  this  world  that  would  soothe  even  remorse.  And  for 
an  ordinary  person,  not  a  great  genius  and  not  a  great 
ruffian,  give  us  a  lofty  bridge  whence  you  may  look 
down  upon  a  great  plane-tree. 


MICHAEL  SCOTT'S  FAMILIAR  SPIRIT.  187 

All  this,  however,  is  a  deviation.  Sitting  on  the 
bridge  and  enjoying  the  scene,  this  thought  arose : 
Greatly  as  one  enjoys  and  delights  in  this,  what  would 
the  feeling  be  if  one  were  authoritatively  commanded  to 
remain  in  this  beautiful  place,  doing  nothing,  for  a 
month  ?  And  one  could  not  but  confess  that  the  feel 
ing  would  not  be  pleasant.  The  things  you  enjoy  most 
intensely  you  enjoy  for  but  a  short  time,  then  you  are 
satiated.  When  parched  with  thirst,  what  so  delightful 
as  the  first  draught  of  fair  water  ?  But  if  you  were 
compelled  to  drink  a  fourth  and  fifth  tumbler,  the  water 
would  become  positively  nauseous.  So  is  it  with  rest. 
You  enjoy  it  keenly  for  a  little  while,  but  constrained 
idleness,  being  prolonged,  would  make  you  miserable. 
Ten  days  here  are  delightful ;  then  back,  with  fresh  ap 
petite  and  vigor,  to  the  dear  work.  But  a  month  here, 
thus  early  in  the  year,  would  be  a  fearful  infliction. 
You  have  not  earned  the  autumn  holidays  as  yet. 

It  is  in  human  nature,  that  when  you  feel  the  pres 
sure  of  anything  painfully,  you  fancy  that  the  opposite 
thing  would  set  you  right.  When  you  are  extremely 
busy  and  distracted  by  a .  host  of  things  demanding 
thought,  you  think  that  pure  idleness  would  be  pleasant. 
So,  in  boyhood,  on  a  burning  summer  day,  you  thought 
it  would  be  delicious  to  feel  cold.  You  went  to  bathe 
in  the  sea,  and  you  found  it  a  great  deal  too  cold. 

Charles  Lamb,  for  a  great  part  of  his  life,  was  kept 
very  busy  at  uncongenial  work.  Oftentimes,  through 
those  irksome  hours,  he  thought  how  pleasant  it  would 
be  to  be  set  free  from  that  work  forever.  So  he  said 
that  if  he  had  a  son,  the  son  should  be  called  NOTHING 
TO  DO,  and  he  should  do  nothing.  Of  course,  Elia 


188  AT   THE   CASTLE  : 

spoke  only  half-seriously.  We  know  what  he  meant. 
But,  in  sober  earnest,  we  can  all  see  that  NOTHING  TO 
DO  would  have  been  a  miserable  as  well  as  a  wicked 
man.  He  would  assuredly  have  grown  a  bad  fellow ; 
and  he  would  just  as  surely  have  been  a  wretched 
being. 

Every  one  knows  the  story  of  Michael  Scott  and  his 
Familiar  Spirit.  Of  late  I  have  begun  to  understand 
the  meaning  of  that  story. 

Michael  Scott,  it  is  recorded,  had  a  Familiar  Spirit 
under  his  charge.  We  do  not  know  how  Michael  Scott 
first  got  possession  of  that  Spirit.  Probably  he  raised 
it,  and  then  could  not  get  rid  of  it :  like  the  man  who 
begged  Dr.  Log  to  propose  a  toast,  and  then  Dr.  Log 
spoke  for  three  quarters  of  an  hour.  Michael  Scott 
had  to  provide  employment  for  that  being,  on  pain  of 
being  torn  in  pieces.  Michael  gave  the  Spirit  very 
difficult  things  to  do.  They  were  done  with  terrible 
ease  and  rapidity.  The  three  peaks  of  the  Eildon  Hills 
were  formed  in  a  single  night.  A  weir  was  built  across 
the  Tweed  in  a  like  time.  Michael  Scott  was  in  a  ter 
rible  state.  In  these  days,  he  would  probably  have 
desired  the  Spirit  to  make  and  lay  the  Atlantic  Tele 
graph  Cable.  But  a  happy  thought  struck  him.  He 
bade  his  Familiar  make  a  rope  of  sea-sand.  Of  course, 
this  provided  unlimited  occupation.  The  thing  could 
never  be  finished.  And  the  wizard  was  all  right. 

These  things  are  an  allegory.  Michael  Scott's  Fa 
miliar  Spirit  is  your  own  mind,  my  friend.  Your  own 
mind  demands  that  you  find  it  occupation ;  and  if  you 
do  not,  it  will  make  you  miserable.  It  is  an  awful 


MICHAEL  SCOTT'S  FAMILIAE   SPIRIT.  189 

thing  to  have  nothing  to  do.  The  mill  within  you  de- 
mancls  grist  to  grind ;  and  if  you  give  it  none,  it  still 
grinds  on,  as  Luther  said ;  but  it  is  itself  it  grinds  and 
wears  away.  My  friend  Smith,  having  overworked  his 
eyes  at  college,  was  once  forbid  to  read  or  write  for 
eighteen  months.  It  was  a  horrible  penance  at  first. 
But  he  devised  ways  of  giving  the  machine  work  ;  and 
during  that  period  of  enforced  idleness,  he  acquired  the 
power  of  connected  thinking  without  writing  down  each 
successive  thought.  Few  people  have  that  power.  One  of 
the  rarest  of  all  acquirements  is  the  faculty  of  profitable 
meditation.  Most  human  beings,  when  they  fancy  they 
are  meditating,  are  in  fact  doing  nothing  at  all,  and 
thinking  of  nothing. 

You  will  remember  what  was  once  said  by  a  lively 
French  writer,  —  that  we  commonly  think  of  idleness  as 
one  of  the  beatitudes  of  heaven ;  while  we  ought  rather 
to  think  of  it  as  one  of  the  miseries  of  hell.  It  was  an 
extreme  way  which  that  writer  took  of  testifying  to  the 
tormenting  power  of  Michael  Scott's  Familiar  Spirit. 

And  one  evil  in  this  matter  is,  that  it  is  just  the  men 
who  lead  the  most  active  and  useful  lives,  who  are 
making  Michael  Scott's  Spirit  more  insatiable.  You  give 
it  abundance  to  do ;  and  so  when  work  is  cut  off  from 
it,  it  becomes  rampageous.  You  lose  the  power  of  sitting 
still  and  doing  nothing.  You  find  it  inexpressibly  irk 
some  to  travel  by  railway  for  even  half  an  hour,  with 
nothing  to  read.  For  the  most  handy  way  of  pacifying 
the  Spirit  is  to  give  it  something  to  read.  People  tell 
you  how  disgusting  it  was  when  they  had  to  wait  for  three 
quarters  of  an  hour  for  the  train  at  some  little  country 
railway  station.  Michael  Scott's  Spirit  was  worrying 


190  AT   THE   CASTLE  : 

and  tormenting  them,  being  kept  without  employment 
for  that  time.  You  know  to  what  shifts  people  will 
have  recourse,  rather  than  have  the  Familiar  Spirit 
coming  and  tormenting  them.  To  give  grist  to  the  mill, 
to  provide  the  Familiar  Spirit  with  something  to  do,  on 
a  railway  journey  of  twelve  hours,  they  will  read  all 
the  advertisements  in  their  newspaper  :  they  will  go 
back  a  second  and  a  third  time  over  all  the  news  ;  they 
will  even  diligently  peruse  the  leading  article  of  the 
Little  Pedlington  Gazette.  They  read  the  advertisements 
in  Bradshaw.  They  try  to  make  out,  from  that  publica 
tion,  how  to  reach,  by  many  corresponding  trains,  some 
little  cross-country  place  to  which  they  never  intend 
to  go.  Anything  rather  tjhan  be  idle.  Anything  rather 
than  lean  back,  quite  devoid  of  occupation,  and  feel 
the  Familiar  Spirit  worrying  away  within,  as  Prome 
theus  felt  the  vulture  at  his  liver.  "When  I  hear  a  young 
fellow  say  of  some  country  place  where  he  has  been 
spending  some  time,  that  it  is  a  horribly  slow  place,  that 
it  is  the  deadest  place  on  earth,  I  am  aware  that  he  did 
not  find  occupation  there  for  Michael  Scott's  Familiar 
Spirit. 

One  looks  with  interest  at  people  in  whose  case  that 
Spirit  seems  to  have  been  lulled  into  torpidity,  has  been 
brought  to  what  a  practical  philosopher  called  a  dor 
mouse  state.  I  read  last  night  in  a  book  how  somebody 
u  leant  his  cheek  on  his  hand  and  gazed  abstractedly  into 
the  fire."  One  who  has  trained  the  Familiar  Spirit  to 
an  insatiable  appetite  for  work  can  hardly  believe  such 
a  thing  possible.  You  may  remember  a  picture  in  a 
volume  of  the  illustrated  edition  of  the  Waverley  Novels, 
which  represents  a  plump  old  abbot,  sitting  satisfied  in  a 


MICHAEL  SCOTT'S  FAMILIAR  SPIRIT.  191 

large  chair,  with  the  light  of  the  fire  on  his  face,  doing 
nothing,  thinking  of  nothing,  and  quite  tranquil  and 
content.  One  sometimes  thinks,  Would  we  could  do 
the  like  !  That  fat,  stupid  old  abbot  had  led  so  idle  a 
life  that  the  muscular  power  of  the  Familiar  Spirit  was 
abated,  and  its  craving  for  work  gone. 

When  you  are  wearied  with  long  work,  my  reader, 
I  wish  you  may  have  a  place  like  this  to  which  to  come 
and  rest.  How  good  and  pleasant  it  is  for  a  little 
while !  Your  cares  and  burdens  fall  off  from  you. 
How  insignificant  many  things  look  to  one,  sitting  on  this 
green  grass,  or  looking  over  this  bridge  down  into  the 
green  dell,  that  worried  one  in  the  midst  of  duty !  If 
you  were  out  in  a  hurricane  at  sea,  and  your  boat  got 
at  last  into  a  little  sheltered  cove,  you  would  be  glad 
and  thankful.  But  only  for  a  short  time.  In  a  little, 
you  would  be  weary  of  staying  there.  We  are  so  made 
vhat  we  cannot  for  any  length  of  time  remain  quiescent 
and  do  nothing.  And  we  cannot  live  on  the  past.  The 
Familiar  Spirit  will  not  chew  the  cud,  so  to  speak;  you 
must  give  him  fresh  provender  to  grind.  Perhaps  there 
have  been  days  in  your  life  which  were  so  busy  with 
hard  work,  so  alive  with  what  to  you  were  great  inter 
ests,  so  happy  with  a  bewildering  bliss,  that  you  fan 
cied  you  would  be  able  to  look  back  on  them  and  to 
live  in  them  all  your  life,  and  they  would  be  a  posses 
sion  for  ever.  Not  so.  It  is  the  present  on  which  we- 
must  live.  You  can  no  more  satisfy  Michael  Scott's 
Spirit  with  the  remembrance  of  former  occupations  and 
enjoyments  than  you  can  allay  your  present  hunger  with 
the  remembrance  of  beef-steaks  brought  you  by  the 
plump  head-waiter  at  "The  Cock,"  half  a  dozen  years 


192  AT   THE   CASTLE  : 

ago.  Each  day  must  bring  its  work,  or  the  Spirit  will 
be  at  you  and  stick  pins  into  you. 

A  power  of  falling  asleep  enables  one  to  evade  the 
Spirit.  At  night,  going  to  bed,  looking  for  a  sleepless 
night,  how  many  a  man  has  said.  Oh  for  forgetfulness ! 
When  you  have-  escaped  into  that  realm,  the  Spirit  can 
trouble  you  no  more.  You  know  the  wish  which  Hood 
puts  on  the  lips  of  Eugene  Aram,  tortured  by  an  unen 
durable  recollection,  that  he  could  shut  his  mind  and 
clasp  it  with  a  clasp,  as  he  could  close  his  book  and 
clasp  it.  Few  men  are  more  to  be  envied  than  those 
who  have  this  power.  Napoleon  had  it.  So  had  the 
Duke  of  Wellington.  At  any  moment  either  of  these 
men  could  escape  into  a  region  where  they  were  entirely 
free  from  the  pressure  of  those  anxieties  which  weighed 
them  down  while  awake.  Once  the  Duke,  with  his 
aide-de-camp,  came  galloping  up  to  a  point  of  the  Brit 
ish  lines  whence  an  attack  was  to  be  made.  He  was 
told  the  guns  would  not  be  ready  to  open  for  two  hours. 
"  Then,"  said  he,  "  we  had  better  have  a  sleep."  He  sat 
down  in  a  trench,  leant  his  back  against  its  side,  and 
was  fast  asleep  in  a  minute.  That  great  man  could  at 
any  time  escape  from  Michael  Scott's  Spirit ;  could  get 
into  a  country  where  the  Spirit  could  not  follow  him. 
For  in  dreamless  sleep  you  escape  from  yourself. 

I  have  been  told  that  there  is  another  means  of  lulling 
that  insatiable  being  into  a  state  in  which  it  ceases  to 
be  troublesome  and  importunate.  It  is  tobacco.  Some 
men  say  that  the  smoking  of  that  fragrant  weed  soothes 
them  into  a  perfect  calm,  in  which  they  are  pleasurably 
conscious  of  existing,  but  have  no  wish  to  do  anything. 
Let  me  confess,  notwithstanding,  that  I  esteem  smoking 


MICHAEL   SCOTT'S  FAMILIAR   SPIRIT.  193 

as  one  of  the  most  offensive  and  selfish  of  the  lesser 
sins.  When  I  see  smoke  pouring  out  of  the  window 
of  a  railway  carriage  not  specially  allotted  to  smokers, 
I  go  no  farther  for  evidence  that  that  carriage  is  occu 
pied  by  selfish  snobs. 

Young  children  have  Michael  Scott's  Familiar  Spirit 
to  find  employment  for,  just  as  much  as  their  seniors. 
Who  does  not  yet  remember  the  horrible  feeling  which 
you  expressed  when  a  child  by  saying  you  had  nothing 
to  do?  I  have  just  heard  a  little  thing  say  to  his  moth 
er,  "  Read  me  a  story  to  make  the  time  pass  quick." 
That  was  his  way  of  saying,  "to  pacify  the  Familiar 
Spirit."  And  we  talk  of  killing  Time,  as  though  he 
were  an  enemy  to  be  reduced  to  helplessness.  There  is 
an  offensive  phrase  which  sets  all  the  idea  more  dis 
tinctly.  There  are  silly  fellows  who  ask  you  -what 
o'clock  it  is  by  saying,  "  How  goes  the  enemy  ? "  This 
phrase  indeed  suggests  thoughts  too  solemn  and  awful 
for  this  page.  Let  me  ask,  in  a  word,  if  Time  be  such, 
how  about  Eternity  ?  But  jn  every  such  case  as  those 
named,  the  enemy  is  not  Time.  It  is  Michael  Scott's 
Familiar  Spirit  demanding  occupation.  How  fast  Time 
goes,  when  the  Spirit  is  pleasantly  or  laboriously  em 
ployed  !  When  people  talk  of  killing  Time,  they  mean 
knocking  that  strange  being  on  the  head,  so  to  speak ; 
stunning  it  for  the  hour.  That  may  b.e  done,  but  it  is 
soon  up  again,  importunate  as  ever. 

I  suppose,  my  reader,  that  you  can  remember  times 
in  which  the  face  you  loved  best  looked  its  sweetest; 
and  tones,  pleasanter  than  all  the  rest,  of  the  voice  that 
was  always  pleasantest  to  hear ;  thoughtful  looks  of  the 


194  AT  THE   CASTLE. 

little  child  you  seek  in  vain  in  the  man  in  whom  you 
lost  it ;  and  smiles  of  the  little  child  that  died.  Touched 
as  with  the  light  of  eternity,  these  things  stand  forth 
amid  the  years  of  past  time ;  they  are  as  the  mountain 
tops  rising  over  the  mists  of  oblivion ;  they  are  the  pos 
sessions  which  will  never  pass  your  remembrance  till 
you  cease  to  remember  at  all.  And  you  know  that 
Nature  too  has  her  moments  of  special  transfiguration ; 
times  when  she  looks  so  fair  and  sweet  that  you  are 
compelled  to  think  that  she  would  do  well  enough  (for 
all  the  thorns  and  thistles  of  the  Fall),  if  you  could  but 
get  quit  of  the  ever-intruding  blight  of  sin  and  sorrowr. 
Such  a  season  is  this  bright  morning,  with  its  sunshine 
that  seems  to  us  (in  our  ignorance)  fair  and  joyous 
enough  for  that  place  where  there  is  no  night ;  with  its 
leaves  green  and  living  (would  they  but  last)  as  we  can 
picture  of  the  Tree  of  Life ;  with  its  cheerful  quiet  that 
is  a  little  foretaste  of  the  perfect  rest  wrhich  shall  last 
forever.  It  is  very  nearly  time  to  go  back  to  work,  but 
we  shall  cherish  this  remembrance  of  the  place  ;  and  so 
it  will  be  green  and  sunshiny  through  winter  days. 


CHAPTER    XI. 

CONCERNING    THE    RIGHT    TACK:    WITH    SOME 
THOUGHTS    ON    THE    WRONG    TACK. 

|OT  many  days  since,  I  was  walking  along  a 
certain  street,  in  a  certain  city ;  and  there  I 
beheld  two  little  boys  of  the  better  sort 
fighting  furiously.  There  are  people,  claim 
ing  to  be  what  is  vulgarly  called  Muscular  Christians, 
who  think  that  a  certain  amount  of  fighting  among  boys 
is  to  be  very  much  encouraged,  as  a  thing  tending  to 
make  the  little  fellows  manly  and  courageous.  For  my 
self,  I  believe  that  God's  law  is  wise  as  well  as  right ; 
and  I  do  not  believe  that  angry  passion  (which  God's 
law  condemns),  or  that  vindictive  efforts  to  do  mischief 
to  a  fellow-creature  (which  God's  law  also  condemns), 
are  things  which  deserve  to  be  in  any  way  encouraged, 
or  are  things  likely  to  develop  in  either  man  or  boy  the 
kind  of  character  which  wise  and  good  people  would 
wish  to  see;  Accordingly  I  interposed  in  the  fight,  and 
sought  to  make  peace  between  the  little  men  ;  support 
ing  my  endeavors  by  some  general  statement  to  the 
effect  that  good  boys  ought  not  to  be  fighting  in  that 
way.  They  stopped  at  once  :  no  doubt  both  had  had 
enough  of  that  kind  of  thing.  For  one  had  a  bloody 


196  CONCERNING   THE  RIGHT   TACK. 

nose,  and  the  other  had  a  rudimentary  black  eye,  which 
next  morning  would  be  manifest.  But  one  of  them 
defended  himself  against  the  charge  of  having  done 
anything  wrong,  by  saying,  with  the  energy  of  one  who 
was  quite  assured  that  he  had  the  principles  of  eternal 
justice  on  his  side,  "  I  have  a  right  to  hit  him,  because 
he  hit  me  first !  " 

Of  course,  these  were  suggestive  words.  And  I 
could  not  but  think  to  myself,  walking  away  from  the 
little  fellows  after  having  composed  their  strife,  Now 
there  is  the  principle  upon  which  this  world  goes  on. 
There  is  not  a  deeper-rooted  tendency  in  human  nature 
than  that  which  is  exhibited  in  that  saying  of  that  fine 
little  boy.  For  he  was  a  fine  little  boy,  and  so  was  the 
other.  The  great  principle  on  which  most  human 
beings  go,  in  all  the  relations  and  all  the  doings  of  life, 
is  just  that  which  is  compendiously  expressed  in  the 
words,  "  I  have  a  right  to  hit  you,  if  you  hit  me  first." 
You  may  trace  the  manifestations  of  that  great  principle 
in  all  possible  walks  of  life,  and  among  all  sorts  and 
conditions  of  men.  One  man  or  woman  says  something 
unkind  of  another :  the  other  feels  quite  entitled  to 
retaliate  by  saying  something  unkind  of  the  first.  And 
this  tendency  appears  early.  I  once  heard  a  little  boy 
of  four  years  old  say,  with  some  indignation  of  manner : 
"  Miss  Smith  said  I  was  a  troublesome  monkey :  if  she 
ever  says  that  again,  I'll  say  that  she  is  an  ugly  old 
maid !  "  One  man  says,  in  print,  something  depreciatory 
of  another ;  finds  fault  with  something  the  other  man 
has  said,  or  written,  or  done.  Then  the  other  man  re 
torts  in  kind :  pays  off  the  first  man  by  publishing 
something  depreciatory  of  him.  A  great  many  of  the 


CONCERNING  THE  RIGHT  TACK.  197 

political  essays  which  we  read  in  the  newspapers,  and 
a  great  many  of  the  reviews  of  books  we  meet,  are 
manifestly  dictated  and  inspired  by  the  purpose  to  re 
venge  some  personal  offence,  to  clear  off  scores  by 
hitting  the  man  who  has  hit  you.  A  sharp,  clever 
person  reads  the  book  written  by  an  enemy,  with  the 
determination  to  pick  holes  in  it ;  not  that  the  book  is 
bad,  or  that  he  thinks  it  bad ;  but  its  author  has  given  him 
some  offence,  and  that  is  to  be  retaliated.  You  remem 
ber,  of  course,  that  very  clever  and  very  bitter  article 
on  Mr.  Croker's  edition  of  Boswell's  Life  of  Johnson, 
which  is  contained  in  Lord  Macaulay's  selection  of 
essays  from  the  Edinburgh  Review.  Was  there  any 
mortal  who  supposed  that  when  Macaulay's  own  History 
of  England  appeared,  Mr.  Croker  would  review  it  other 
wise  than  with  a  determination  to  find  faults  in  it  ? 
Was  there  any  mortal  surprised  to  find  that  Mr.  Croker, 
having  been  hit  by  Macau  lay,  endeavored  to  hit  Ma- 
caulay  again  ?  And  if  Macaulay's  History  had  been 
absolutely  immaculate,  had  been  a  thousand  times  better 
than  it  is,  do  you  suppose  that  would  appreciably  have 
affected  the  tone  of  Mr.  Croker's  review  of  it  ?  I  am 
far  from  saying  that  Mr.  Croker  deliberately  made  up 
his  mind  to  do  injustice  to  Lord  Macaulay.  It  is  likely 
enough  he  thought  Macaulay  richly  deserved  all  the 
ill  he  said  of  him.  A  great  law  of  mind  governs  even 
human  beings  who  never  came  to  a  formal  resolution  of 
obeying  it ;  as  a  stream  never  pauses  to  consider 
whether,  at  a  certain  point,  it  shall  run  downhill  or  up. 
When  Sir  Bulwer  Lytton,  in  his  poem  of  The  New 
Timon,  alluded  to  Mr.  Tennyson  in  disparaging  terms  as 
Miss  Alfred,  no  one  was  surprised  to  read,  in  a  few 


198  CONCERNING  THE  RIGHT  TACK. 

days,  that  terribly  trenchant  copy  of  verses  in  which 
Mr.  Tennyson  called  Sir  Bulvver  a  Bandbox,  and  showed 
that  the  true  Timon  was  quite  a  different  man  from  the 
Bandbox  with  his  mane  in  curl-papers.  For  such  is  the 
incongruous  imagery  which  the  reader  will  carry  away 
from  that  poem.  And  if  you  happen,  my  reader,  to  be 
acquainted  with  three  or  four  men  who  have  opportunity 
to  carry  on  their  quarrels  in  print,  or  by  speeches  in 
deliberative  assemblies,  and  if  you  refuse  to  take  part 
in  the  quarrels  which  divide  them,  and  keep  resolutely 
on  friendly  terms  with  all,  you  will  be  struck  by  the 
fact  that  the  system  of  mutual  hitting  and  retaliation, 
carried  on  for  a  while,  quite  incapacitates  these  men  for 
doing  each  other  anything  like  justice.  «J2ach  will  occa 
sionally  caution  you  against  his  adversary  as  a  very 
wicked  and  horrible  person  ;  while  you,  knowing  both, 
are  well  aware  that  each  is  in  the  main  an  able  and 
good-hearted  human  being,  not  without  some  salient 
faults,  of  course ;  and  that  the  image  of  each  which  is 
present  to  the  mind  of  the  other  is  a  frightful  carica 
ture  ;  is  about  as  like  the  being  represented  as  the  most 
awful  photograph  ever  taken  by  an  ingenious  youthful 
amateur  is  like  you,  my  good-looking  friend.  I  have 
named  deliberative  assemblies.  Everybody  knows  in 
how  striking  a  fashion  you  will  find  the  great  principle 
of  retaliation  exhibited  in  such ;  and  nowhere,  I  lament 
to  say,  more  decidedly  than  in  presbyteries,  synods,  and 
general  assemblies,  where  you  might  naturally  expect 
better  things.  I  have  heard  a  revered  friend  say,  that 
only  the  imperative  sense  of  duty  would  ever  lead  him 
to  such  places ;  and  that  the  effect  of  their  entire  tone 
upon  his  moral  and  spiritual  nature  was  the  very  reverse 


CONCERNING  THE  RIGHT  TACK.  199 

of  healthful.  One  man,  in  a  speech,  says  something 
sharp  of  another  :  of  course,  when  the  first  man  sits 
down,  the  second  gets  up,  and  says  something  unkind  of 
his  brother.  And  you  will  sometimes  find  men,  with  a 
calculating  rancor,  and  with  what  Mr..  Croker,  speaking 
of  Earl  Russell,  called  "  a  spiteful  slyness,"  wait  their 
opportunity,  that  they  may  deal  the  return  blow  at  the 
time  and  place  where  it  will  be  most  keenly  felt.  Now 
all  this,  which  is  bad  in  anybody,  is  more  evidently  bad 
in  men  who  on  the  previous  Sunday  were,  not  improb 
ably,  preaching  on  the  duty  of  forgiving  injuries.  All 
clergymen  have  frequent  occasion  to  repeat  certain 
words  which  run  to  the  effect,  "  And  forgive  us  our 
trespasses,  as  we  forgive  them  that  trespass  against  us." 
Yet  you  may  find  a  clergyman  here  and  there  whose 
reputation  is  high  as  a  very  hard  hitter,  and  as  one 
who  never  suffers  any  breath  of  assault  to  pass  without 
keenly  retaliating.  If  you  touch  such  a  man,  however 
distantly ;  if,  in  the  midst  of  a  general  panegyric,  you 
venture  to  hint  that  anything  he  has  done  is  wrong,  he 
will  flare  up,  and  you  will  have  a  savage  reply.  You 
know  the  consequence  of  touching  him,  just  as  you 
know  .  the  consequence  of  giving  a  kick  to  a  ferocious 
bulldog.  Now,  is  that  a  fine  thing  ?  Is  it  anything  to 
boast  of?  I  have  heard  a  middle-aged  man  (not  a 
clergyman)  state  in  an  ostentatious  manner,  that  he 
never  forgot  an  offence ;  that  whoever  touched  him 
would  some  day  (as  schoolboys  say)  catch  it.  All  this 
struck  me  as  tremendously  small.  In  the  case  of  most 
people  who  talk  in  that  way,  it  is  not  true.  They  are 
not  nearly  so  bad  as  they  would  like  you  to  think  them. 
They  don't  cherish  resentments  in  that  vindictive  way. 


200  CONCERNING  THE  RIGHT  TACK. 

J 

But  if  it  were  true,  it  would  be  nothing  to  be  proud  of. 
I  have  heard  a  man  boast  that  he  had  never  thanked 
anybody  for  anything  all  his  life.  I  thought  him  very 
silly.  He  expected  me  to  think  him  very  great.  I  well 
remember  how,  in  a  certain  senate,  after  two  older  mem 
bers,  each  a  wise  and  good  man  when  you  got  him  in 
his  right  mind,  had  spent  some  time  in  mutual  recrimi 
nation,  a  younger  member  took  occasion  to  point  out 
that  all  this  was  very  far  from  being  right  or  pleasing. 
To  which  one  of  the  good  men  replied,  in  a  ferocious 
voice,  and  with  a  very  red  face,  as  if  that  answer  settled 
the  matter,  "  But  who  began  it  ?  "  No  doubt,  the  other 
had  begun  it ;  and  that  good  man  took  refuge  in  the 
angry  schoolboy's  principle,  "  I  have  a  right  to  hit  him, 
because  he  hit  me  ! " 

I  have  been  speaking,  you  see,  of  those  little  offences, 
and  those  little  retaliations,  which  we  have  occasion 
to  observe  daily  in  the  comparative  trimness  and  re 
straint  of  modern  life,  and  in  a  state  of  society  where  a 
certain  Christian  tone  of  feeling,  and  the  strong  hand  of 
the  law,  limit  the  offences  which  can  be  commonly 
given,  and  the  vengeance  which  can  be  commonly  taken. 
My  good  friend  A,  who  has  been  several  times  attacked 
in  print  by  B,  would  probably  kick  B,  if  various  social 
restraints  did  not  prevent  him.  But,  however  open  the 
way  might  be,  I  really  don't  believe  that  A  would  cut 
B's  throat,  or  burn  his  house  and  children  and  other 
possessions.  No  ;  I  don't  think  he  would.  Still,  there 
is  nothing  I  less  like  to  do  than  to  talk  in  a  dogmatic 
and  confident  fashion.  If  Mr.  C  applies  to  the  univer 
sity  of  D  for  the  honorary  degree  of  Doctor  of  Music, 
and  is  refused  that  distinction,  mainly  (as  C  believes) 


CONCERNING  THE  RIGHT  TACK.  201 

through  the  opposition  of  Professor  E,  although  C  may 
retort  upon  E  by  a  malicious  article  in  a  newspaper, 
containing  several  gross  falsehoods,  I  really  believe,  and  I 
may  say  I  hope,  and  even  surmise,  that  C,  even  if  he 
had  the  chance,  would  not  exactly  poison  E  with  strych 
nine.  And  I  may  say  that  I  firmly  believe,  from  the 
little  I  have  seen  of  C's  writings  (by  which  alone  I 
know  him),  that  nothing  would  induce  C  to  poison  E,  if 
C  were  entirely  assured  that  if  he  poisoned  E,  he  (C) 
would  infallibly  be  detected  and  hanged.  But  we  are 
cautious  now,  and,  through  various  circumstances,  our 
claws  have  been  cut  short.  It  was  different  long  ago. 
Of  course  we  all  know  how,  in  the  old  days,  insult  or  in 
jury  was  often  wiped  out  in  blood;  how  it  was  a  step  in 
advance  even  to  establish  the  stern  principle  of  "  an  eye 
for  an  eye  and  a  tooth  for  a  tooth,  hand  for  hand,  foot 
for  foot,  burning  for  burning,  wound  for  wound,  stripe 
for  stripe."  For  that  principle  made  sure  that  the  re 
taliation  should  at  least  not  exceed  the  first  offence  ; 
while  formerly,  and  even  afterwards,  where  that  princi 
ple  was  not  recognized,  very  fanciful  offences  and  very 
small  injuries  sometimes  resulted  in  the  quenching  of 
many  lives,  in  the  carrying  fire  and  sword  over  great 
tracts  of  country,  and  in  the  perpetuating  of  bloody 
feuds  between  whole  tribes  for  age  after  age.  You 
know  that  there  have  been  countries  and  times  in 
which  revenge  was  organized  into  a  scientific  art ;  in 
which  the  terrible  vendetta,  proclaimed  between  families, 
was  maintained  through  successive  centuries,  till  one  or 
the  other  was  utterly  extinguished,  and  a  regularly  kept 
record  preserved  the  story  how  this  and  the  other  mem 
ber  of  the  proscribed  race  had  been  ruined,  or  impris- 

9* 


202  CONCERNING  THE  RIGHT  TACK. 

oned  in  a  hopeless  dungeon,  or  by  false  testimony 
brought  within  the  grasp  of  cruel  laws,  or  directly  mur 
dered  outright  by  some  one  of  the  race  to  which  was 
committed  the  task  of  vengeance.  You  know  how  the 
dying  father  has,  with  his  latest  breath,  charged  his  son 
to  devote  himself  to  the  destruction  of  the  clan  that  lived 
beyond  the  hill  or  across  the  river,  because  of  some  old 
offence  whose  history  was  almost  forgot  ;  you  know 
how  the  Campbell  and  the  Macgregor,  the  Maxwell 
and  the  Johnstone,  the  Chattan  and  the  Quhele  —  in 
Scotland  —  were  hereditary  foes,  and  how,  in  many 
other  instances,  the  very  infant  was  born  into  his  ances 
tors'  quarrel.  You  have  heard  how  a  dying  man,  told 
by  the  minister  of  religion  that  now  he  must  forgive 
every  enemy  as  he  himself  hoped  to  be  forgiven,  has 
said  to  his  surviving  child,  "  Well,  /  must  forgive 
such  a  one,  but  my  curse  be  upon  you  if  you  do ! " 
I  am  not  going  to  give  you  an  historical  view,  or 
anything  like  an  historical  view,  of  a  miserable  sub 
ject,  but  every  reader  knows  well  that  there  is  not  a 
blacker  nor  more  deplorable  page  in  the  history  of 
human  kind  than  that  which  tells  us  how  faithfully,  how 
unsparingly,  how  bloodily,  the  great  principle  of  return 
ing  evil  for  evil  has  been  carried  out  by  human  beings ; 
the  great  rule,  not  of  doing  to  others  as  you  would  that 
they  should  do  to  you,  but  of  doing  to  others  as  they 
have  done  to  you,  or  perhaps  as  you  think  they  would 
do  to  you  if  they  had  the  chance  ;  in  short,  the  great 
fundamental  principle  of  universal  application,  set  out  in 
the  words  of  my  little  friend  with  the  inchoate  black 
eye,  "  I  have  a  right  to  hit  him,  because  he  hit  me  first!" 
Now,  all  this  kind  of  thing  is  what  I  mean  by  THE 
WRONG  TACK. 


CONCERNING  THE  RIGHT  TACK.  203 

My  friendly  reader,  there  is  another  way  of  meeting 
injury  and  unkindness,  and  a  better  way.  The  natural 
thing,  unquestionably,  is  to  return  evil  for  evil.  The 
Christian  thing,  and  the  better  way,  is  to  "  overcome  evil 
with  good."  There  was  a  certain  Great  Teacher,  who 
was  infinitely  more  than  a  Great  Teacher,  who  taught 
all  who  should  be  His  followers  till  the  end  of  time,  that 
the  right  thing  would  always  be  to  meet  unkindness  with 
kindness ;  to  forgive  men  their  trespasses  as  we  hope 
our  Heavenly  Father  will  forgive  ours ;  to  love  our  ene 
mies,  bless  them  that  curse  us,  do  ^ood  to  them  that 
hate  us,  and  pray  for  them  which  despitefully  use  us  and 
persecute  us,  —  if  such  people  be.  And  an  eminent 
philosopher,  whom  some  people  wrould  probably  appre 
ciate  more  highly  if  he  had  not  been  also  an  inspired 
apostle,  spoke  not  unworthily  of  his  Divine  Master  when 
he  said,  "  Recompense  to  no  man  evil  for  evil ;  dearly 
beloved,  avenge  not  yourselves.  If  thine  enemy  hun 
ger,  feed  him ;  if  he  thirst,  give  him  drink.  Be  not 
overcome  of  evil,  but  overcome  evil  with  good." 

Now,  all  this  kind  of  thing  is  what  I  mean  by  THE 
RIGHT  TACK. 

There  is  no  need  at  all  to  try  formally  to  define  what 
is  intended  by  the  Right  Tack.  Everyone  knows  all 
about  it,  and  its  meaning  will  become  plainer  as  we  go 
on.  Of  course,  the  general  idea  is,  that  we  should  try 
to  meet  unkindness  with  kindness ;  unfairness  with  fair 
ness  ;  a  bad  word  with  a  good  one.  The  general-  idea  is 
this:  Such  a  neighbor  or  acquaintance  has  spoken  of 
you  unhandsomely,  has  treated  you  unjustly.  Well,  you 
determine  that  you  will  not  go  and  make  yourself  as 
bad  as  he  is,  and  carry  on  the  quarrel,  and  increase  the 


204  CONCERNING  THE  RIGHT  TACK. 

bad  feeling  that  already  exists,  by  trying  to  retort  in 
kind,  —  by  saying  a  bad  word  about  him,  or  by  doing 
him  an  unfriendly  turn.  No,  you  resolve  to  go  upon 
another  tack  entirely.  You  will  treat  the  person  with 
scrupulous  fairness.  You  try  to  think  kindly  of  him, 
and  to  discover  some  excuse  for  his  conduct  towards 
you ;  and  if  an  opportunity  occurs  of  doing  him  a  kind 
turn,  you  do  it,  frankly  and  heartily.  Let  me  say,  that 
if  you  try,  in  a  fair  spirit  and  in  a  kind  spirit,  to  discover 
some  excuse  for  the  bad  way  in  which  that  person  has 
treated  you,  or  spoken  of  you,  you  will  seldom  have 
much  difficulty  in  doing  so.  You  will  easily  think  of 
some  little  provocation  you  gave  him,  very  likely  with 
out  in  the  least  intending  it;  you  will  easily  see  that 
your  neighbor  was  speaking  or  acting  under  some  mis 
conception  or  mistake ;  you  will  easily  enough  think  of 
many  little  things  in  his  condition  —  painful,  mortify 
ing,  anxious  things  —  which  may  well  be  taken  as  some 
excuse  for  worse  words  and  doings  than  ever  proceeded 
from  him  concerning  you.  Ah,  my  brother,  most  people 
in  these  days,  if  you  did  but  know  all  their  condition,  all 
about  their  families  and  their  circumstances,  have  so 
many  causes  of  disquiet  and  anxiety  and  irritation  to 
fever  the  weary  heart  and  to  shake  the  shaken  nerves, 
that  a  wise  and  good  man  will  never  make  them  of 
fenders  for  a  hasty  word,  or  even  for  an  uncharitable 
suspicion  or  an  unkind  deed,  very  likely  hardly  said  or 
done  till  it  was  bitterly  repented.  My  friend  Smith, 
who  is  one  of  the  best  of  men,  was  one  day  startled,  at 
tending  a  meeting  of  a  certain  senatorial  body,  to  hear 
Mr.  Jones  get  up  and  make  a  speech  in  the  nature  of  a 
most  vicious  attack  upon  Smith.  Smith  listened  atten- 


CONCERNING  THE  RIGHT  TACK.  205 

tively  to  a  few  paragraphs,  and  then,  turning  to  the  man 
next  to  him,  put  the  following  question  :  "  I  say,  Brown, 
is  not  that  poor  fellow's  stomach  often  very  much  out  of 
order  ?  "  —  "  He  suffers  from  it  horribly,"  was  the  true 
reply.  "  Ah,  that 's  it,  poor  fellow,"  said  Smith  ;  "  I  see 
what  it  is  that  is  exacerbating  his  temper  and  making 
him  talk  in  that  way."  And  when  Jones  sat  down, 
Smith  got  up  with  a  kindly  face,  —  I  don't  mean  with  a 
provokingly  benevolent  and  forgiving  look,  —  and  in  a 
simple,  earnest  way,  justified  the  conduct  which  had  been 
attacked  in  a  manner  which  conveyed  that  he  was  really 
anxious  that  Jones  should  think  well  of  him,  —  all  this 
without  the  slightest  complaint  of  Jones's  bitterness,  or 
the  least  reference  to  it.  Smith  had  only  done  Jones 
justice  in  all  this.  He  had  done  no  more  than  allow 
for  something  which  ought  to  be  allowed  for,  and  Jones 
was  fairly  beaten.  After  the  meeting  he  went  to  Smith 
and  asked  his  pardon,  saying  that  he  really  had  been 
feeling  so  ill  that  he  did  not  know  very  well  what  he 
was  saying.  Smith  shook  hands  with  poor  Jones  in  a 
way  that  warmed  Jones's  heart,  and  they  were  better 
friends  than  ever  from  that  day  forward.  But  in  the  lot 
of  many  a  man  there  are  worse  things  than  little  physi 
cal  uneasinesses,  for  which  a  wise  man  will  always  allow 
in  estimating  an  offence  given.  Yes,  there  are  people  with 
so  much  to  embitter  them,  —  poor  fellows  so  sadly  dis 
appointed,  —  clever,  sensitive  men  so  terribly  misplaced, 
so  grievously  tried,  with  their  keenly  sensitive  nature  so 
daily  rasped,  so  horribly  blistered  by  coarse,  uncongenial 
natures  and  by  unhappy  circumstances,  —  that  I  am  not 
afraid  to  say  that  a  truly  good  man,  if  such  a  poor  fellow 
pitched  into  him  ever  so  bitterly,  or  did  anything  short 


206  CONCERNING  THE  RIGHT  TACK. 

of  hitting  him  over  the  head  with  a  more  than  common 
ly  thick  stick,  would  do  no  more  than  beg  the  poor  fel 
low's  pardon. 

But  mind,  too,  my  friend,  that  all  this  kindly  way  of 
judging  your  fellow-creatures  —  all  this  returning  of 
good  for  evil  —  must  be  a  real  thing,  and  not  a  pre 
tence.  It  must  not  be  a  hypocritical  varnishing  over  of 
a  deep,  angry,  and  bitter  feeling  within  us.  It  must  not 
be  something  done  with  the  purpose  of  putting  our 
neighbor  still  further  and  still  more  conspicuously  in  the 
wrong.  And  far  less  must  it  consist  in  mere  words  with 
no  real  meaning.  Neither  must  it  consist,  as  it  some 
times  in  fact  does,  in  saying  of  an  offending  neighbor, 
"  I  bear  him  no  malice  ;  I  forgive  him  heartily ;  I  make 
no  evil  return  for  his  infamous  conduct  towards  me " ; 
when  in  truth,  in  the  very  words  of  forgiveness,  you 
have  said  of  your  offending  neighbor  just  the  very  worst 
you  could  say.  You  may  remember  certain  lines  which 
appeared  in  a  London  newspaper  several  years  since, 
which  purported  to  be  a  free  translation  into  rhyme  of  a 
speech  made  in  the  House  of  Peers  by  an  eminent 
bishop.  In  that  speech  the  blameless  prelate  spoke  of  a 
certain  order  of  men  whose  tastes  were  very  offensive  to 

him.     He  said  they 

• 

"...  Were  the  vilest  race 
That  ever  in  earth  or  hell  had  place. 
He  would  not  prejudge  them :  no,  not  he ; 
For  his  soul  o'erflowed  with  charity. 
Incarnate  fiends,  he  would  not  condemn; 
No,  God  forbid  he  should  slander  them. 
Foul  swine,  their  lordships  must  confess 
He  used  them  with  Christian  gentleness. 
He  hated  all  show  of  persecution, — 
But  whv  were  n't  thev  sent  to  execution?  " 


CONCERNING  THE  BIGHT  TACK.  207 

I  have  no  doubt  whatever  that  these  lines  (which 
form  part  of  a  considerable  poem)  are  an  extreme  ex 
aggeration  of  what  the  bishop  did  actually  say;  yet  I 
have  just  as  little  donbt  that  in  his  speech  the  bishop 
did  exhibit  something  of  that  tone.  For  I  have  known 
human  beings,  not  a  few.  who  diligently  endeavored  to 
combine  the  forgiving  of  a  man  with  the  pitching  into 
him  just  as  hard  as  they  conveniently  could.  Xow?  that 
will  not  do.  You  mu^:  make  your  choice.  You  cannot- 
at  the  same  time  have  the  satisfaction  of  wreaking  your 
vengeance  upon  one  who  has  injured  you.  and  likewise 
the  magnanimous  pleasure  of  thinking  that  you  have 
Christianly  forgiven  him.  Your  returning  of  good  for 
evil  must  be  a  real  thing.  It  must  be  done  heartily, 
and  without  reservation  in  your  own  mind,  or  it  is  noth 
ing  at  all.  Uriah  Heep.  in  Mr.  Dickens's  beautiful 
story,  forgave  David  Copperfield  for  striking  him  a 
blow.  But  Uriah  Heep  never  did  anything  more  vi 
cious,  more  thoroughly  malignant,  than  that  hypocritical 
act.  But  it  was  vicious  and  malignant,  just  because  it 
was  hypocritical.  In  matters  like  this,  sincerity  is  the 
touchstone. 

I  suppose  most  readers  will  agree  with  me  when  I 
say  that  I  know  no  Christian  duty  which  is  so  griev 
ously  neglected  by  people  claiming  to  be  extremely 
good.  There  is  no  mistake  whatever  as  to  what  is  the 
Christian  way  of  meeting  an  unkindness  or  an  unfriend 
ly  act ;  it  is  very  desirable  that  professing  Christians  had 
more  faith  in  its  efficiency  I  It  would  be  well  if  we 
could  all  heartily  believe,  and  act  upon  the  belief,  that 
our  Maker  knows  and  advises  the  right  and  happy  way 
of  meeting  a  bad  turn  when  it  may  be  done  to  us,  how- 


208  CONCERNING  THE  RIGHT  TACK. 

ever  naturally  our  own  hearts  may  suggest  a  very  differ 
ent  way !  But  I  fear  that  our  experience  of  life  has 
convinced  most  of  us,  that  this  duty  of  returning  good 
for  evil  is  one  that  is  very  commonly  and  very  thorough 
ly  shelved.  A  great  many  people  set  it  aside,  as  some 
thing  all  very  good  and  proper,  very  fit  for  the  Bible  to 
recommend,  setting  up  (as  the  Bible  of  course  ought  to 
do)  a  perfect  ideal,  but  as  something  that  will  not  work. 
We  have  all  a  little  of  that  feeling  latent  in  us.  And 
here  and  there  you  may  find  a  human  being,  perhaps  a 
person  of  an  exceedingly  loud  and  ostentatious  religious 
profession,  who  is  so  touchy,  so  ready  to  take  offence, 
and  then  so  vindictive  and  unsparing  in  following  up  the 
man  that  gave  it,  and  in  retaliating  by  word  and  deed, 
—  by  abusive  speeches  and  malicious  writings  and  ill-set 
demeanor  generally,  —  that  it  is  extremely  plain  that, 
though  that  man  might  sympathetically  shake  his  head 
if  he  were  told  to  "  overcome  evil  with  good,"  and  ac 
cept  that  as  a  noble  precept,  still  his  real  motto  ought 
rather  to  be  that  simple  and  compendious  rule  of  life, 
"  I  will  hit  you  if  you  hit  me  ! " 

I  am  going  to  point  out  certain  reasons  which  make 
me  call  the  rule  of  meeting  evil  with  good  the  Right 
Tack,  and  the  rule  of  meeting  evil  with  evil  the  Wrong 
Tack.  For  one  thing,  the  Right  Tack  is  the  effectual 
way.  What  the  second  thing  is  I  don't  choose  to  tell 
you  till  you  arrive  at  it  in  the  regular  course  of  dili 
gently  reading  these  pages.  Let  there  be  no  skipping. 
So,  for  one  thing  at  a  time,  the  Right  Tack  is  the  effec 
tual  thing. 

Of  course,  the  natural  impulse  is  to  return  a  blow, 
and  to  resent  an  injury  or  insult.  That  is  the  first  thing 


CONCERNING  THE  EIGHT  TACK.  209 

that  we  are  ready  to  do.  We  do  that  almost  instinct 
ively,  certainly  with  little  previous  reflection.  And  a 
brute  does  that  just  as  naturally  as  a  man.  It  is  nothing 
to  boast  of  that  you  stand  on  the  same  level  as  a  vicious 
horse,  or  a  savage  bulldog,  or  an  angry  hornet.  But 
then,  that  does  not  overcome  the  evil.  No,  it  perpetu 
ates  and  increases  it.  It  provokes  a  rejoinder  in  kind  ; 
that  provokes  another,  and  thus  the  mischief  grows,  till 
from  a  small  offence  at  the  beginning,  vast  and  compre 
hensive  sin  and  misery  have  arisen.  But  go  on  the 
other  tack,  and  you  will  soon  see,  from  the  little  child 
at  play  up  to  the  worn  man  with  his  long  experience  of 
this  world,  how  the  soft  answer  turns  away  wrath,  and 
the  kind  and  good  deed  beats  the  evil.  There  is  a  beau 
tiful  little  tract  called  The  Man  that  killed  his  Neighbors, 
which  sets  forth  how  a  good  man,  coming  to  a  cantan 
kerous  district,  by  pure  force  of  persevering  and  hearty 
kindness,  fairly  killed  various  unfriendly  neighbors,  who 
met  him  with  many  unfriendly  acts.  He  killed  the 
enemy ;  that  is,  he  did  not  kill  the  individual  man,  but 
the  enemy  was  altogether  annihilated,  and  the  individual 
man  continued  to  exist  as  a  fast  friend.  There  is  some 
thing  left  in  average  human  nature  even  yet,  which 
makes  it  very  hard  indeed  to  go  on  doing  ill  to  a  man 
who  goes  on  showing  kindness  to  you.  You  may  get 
that  tract  for  twopence ;  go  and  pay  your  twopence,  and 
(after  finishing  this  essay)  read  that  tract.  No  doubt 
there  is  so  much  that  is  mean  and  unworthy  in  some 
hearts,  and  people  so  naturally  judge  others  by  them 
selves,  that  there  may  be  found  those  who  cannot  under 
stand  this  returning  of  good  for  evil,  who  will  suspect 
there  is  something  wrong  lurking  under  it,  and  who  will 


210  CONCERNING  THE  RIGHT   TACK. 

not  believe  that  it  is  all  sincere  and  hearty.  And  many 
an  honest  and  forgiving  heart  has  felt  it  as  a  trial  to 
have  its  good  intentions  so  misconceived.  My  friend 
Green  once  wrote  an  article  in  a  magazine.  In  a  cer 
tain  brilliant  weekly  periodical  there  appeared  a  notice 
of  that  article,  finding  fault  with  it.  And  a  week  or 
two  after,  in  another  article  in  the  magazine,  Green,  in 
a  good-natured  way,  replied  to  the  notice  in  the  weekly 
periodical,  and  while  defending  himself  in  so  far,  admit 
ted  candidly  that  there  was  a  good  deal  of  truth  in  the 
strictures  of  the  weekly  periodical.  Green  did  all  that, 
just  as  bears  and  lions  growl  and  fight,  because  it  was 
"  his  nature  too,"  it  cost  him  no  effort ;  and  assuredly 
there  was  no  hypocritical  affectation  in  what  he  did.  He 
felt  no  bitterness,  and  so  he  showed  none.  He  was 
amused  by  the  clever  attack  upon  him,  and  showed  that 
he  was  amused.  Some  time  after  this,  I  read  an  ill- 
natured  notice  of  Green  in  a  newspaper,  in  which, 
among  his  other  misdoings,  there  was  reckoned  up  this 
rejoinder  to  the  brilliant  weekly  periodical.  He  was 
likened  to  Uriah  Heep,  already  mentioned ;  he  was  ac 
cused  of  hypocrisy,  of  arrogant  humility,  and  the  like. 
Of  course  it  was  manifest  to  all  who  knew  Green,  that 
his  assailant  knew  as  much  about  Green's  character  as 
he  does  about  the  unexplored  tracts  of  Central  Africa. 
But  a  mean-spirited  man  cannot  even  understand  a  gen 
erous  one  ;  and  the  assailant  could  not  find  it  in  himself 
to  believe  that  Green  was  a  frank,  honest  man,  writing 
out  of  the  frankness  of  an  unsuspecting  heart.  So,  X 
and  Y  were  once  attacked  in  print  by  Z.  X  thereafter 
cut  Z.  Y  remained  on  friendly  terms  with  Z,  as  pre 
viously.  Y  pointed  out  to  X  that  it  is  foolish  to  quarrel 


CONCERNING  THE  RIGHT  TACK.  211 

with  a  man  for  attacking  you,  even  severely,  upon  prop 
erly  critical  grounds.  Y  further  said  that  he  would 
never  quarrel  with  a  man  who  attacked  him  even  in  the 
most  unfair  way ;  that  he  would  treat  the  attacking  party 
with  kindness,  and  try  to  show  him  that  his  unfavorable 
estimate  was  a  mistaken  one.  "  Ah  ! "  replied  X,  "  you 
are  scheming  to  get  Z  to  puff  you  !  "  To  meet  evil  with 
good,  X  plainly  thought,  is  a  thing  that  could  not  be 
done  in  good  faith,  and  just  because  it  is  the  right  thing 
to  do.  There  must  be  some  underhand,  unworthy 
motive  ;  and  the  greatest  obstacle  that  you  are  likely 
to  find,  in  habitually  meeting  evil  with  good,  will  be  the 
misconstruction  of  your  conduct  by  some  of  the  people 
that  know  you.  No  doubt  Uriah  Heep  himself  and  all 
his  relatives  will  be  ready  to  represent  that  you  are  a 
humbug  and  a  sneak.  Well,  it  is  a  great  pity ;  but 
you  cannot  help  that.  Go  on  still  on  the  Right  Tack, 
and  by  and  by  it  will  come  to  be  understood  that  you 
go  upon  it  in  all  honesty  and  truth,  and  with  no  sinister 
nor  underhand  purpose.  And  when  this  comes  to  be 
understood,  then  the  evil  in  almost  every  case  will  be 
overcome,  and  that  effectually.  No  human  being,  unless 
some  quite  exceptionally  hardened  reprobate,  will  long 
go  on  doing  ill  to  another  who  only  and  habitually 
returns  good  for  it. 

This  is  not  an  essay  for  Sunday  reading :  it  is  meant 
to  be  quietly  read  over  upon  the  evening  of  any  day 
from  Monday  till  Saturday  inclusive.  But  that  is  no 
reason  why  I  should  not  say  to  you,  my  friend,  that  you 
and  I  ought  to  bring  the  whole  force  of  our  Christian 
life  and  principle  to  bear  upon  this  point.  Let  us  deter 
mine  that,  by  the  help  of  God's  Holy  Spirit,  without 


212  CONCERNING  THE   EIGHT   TACK. 

whom  we  can  do  nothing  as  we  ought,  we  shall  faith 
fully  go  upon  the  right  tack  through  all  the  little  ruffles 
and  offences  of  daily  life.  If  the  sharp  retort  comes  to 
your  lips,  remember  that  it  touches  the  momentous 
question  whether  you  are  a  Christian  at  all,  or  not,  that 
you  hold  that  sharp  word  back,  and  say  a  kind  one.  If 
Mr.  A.  or  Miss  B.  (a  poor  old  maid,  soured  a  good  deal 
by  a  tolerably  bitter  life)  speak  unkindly  of  you,  or  do 
you  some  little  injustice,  say  a  good  word  or  do  a  good 
deed  to  either  of  them  in  return.  Pray  for  God's  grace 
to  help  you  habitually  to  do  all  that.  It  will  not  be 
easy  to  do  all  that  at  the  first ;  but  it  will  always  grow 
easier  the  longer  you  try  it.  It  will  grow  easier,  be 
cause  the  resolution  to  go  on  the  right  tack  will  gain 
strength  by  habit.  And  it  will  grow  easier  too,  because 
when  those  around  you  know  that  you  honestly  take 
Christ's  own  way  of  returning  an  injury,  not  many  will 
have  the  heart  to  injure  you :  very  few  will  injure  you 
twice.  I  have  the  firmest  belief,  that  the  true  system 
of  mental  philosophy  is  that  which  is  implied  in  the 
New  Testament ;  and  that  there  never  was  any  one  who 
knew  so  well  the  kind  of  thing  that  would  suit  the 
whole  constitution  of  man,  and  the  whole  system  of  this 
universe,  as  He  who  made  them  both. 

•One  case  is  worth  many  reasonings.  Let  me  relate  a 
true  story.  Not  many  years  since  there  was  in  Mesopo 
tamia  a  Christian  merchant ;  of  great  wealth,  and  with 
the  Right  Spirit  in  Lim.  A  neighboring  trader,  who 
did  not  know  much  about  the  Christian  merchant,  pub 
lished  a  calumnious  pamphlet  about  him.  The  Chris 
tian  merchant  read  it :  it  was  very  abusive  and  wicked 
and  malicious.  In  point  of  style  it  was  something  like 


CONCERNING   THE   RIGHT   TACK.  213 

the  little  document  which  contains  the  articles  about 
Good  Words  which  appeared  in  a  newspaper  called 
Christian  Charity.  The  Christian  merchant,  I  repeat, 
read  the  pamphlet.  All  he  said  was,  that  the  man  who 
wrote  it  would  be  sorry  for  it  some  clay.  This  was  told 
the  libellous  trader,  who  replied  that  he  would  take 
care  that  the  Christian  merchant  should  never  have  the 
chance  of  hurting  him.  But  men  in  trade  cannot 
always  decide  who  their  creditors  shall  be ;  and  in  a 
few  months  the  trader  became  a  bankrupt,  and  the 
Christian  merchant  was  his  chief  creditor.  The  poor 
man  sought  to  make  some  arrangement  that  would  let 
him  work  for  his  children  again.  But  every  one  told 
him  that  this  was  impossible  without  the  consent  of  Mr. 
Grant.  That  was  the  Christian  merchant's  honored 
name.  "I  need  not  go  to  him"  the  poor  bankrupt 
said ;  " I  can  expect  no  favor  from  him"  —  "  Try  him," 
said  somebody  who  knew  the  good  man  better.  So  the 
bankrupt  went  to  Mr.  Grant,  and  told  his  sad  story  of 
heavy  losses,  and  of  heartless  work  and  sore  anxiety 
and  privation,  and  asked  Mr.  Grant's  signature  to  a 
paper  already  signed  by  the  others  to  whom  he  was  in 
debted.  "  Give  me  the  paper,"  said  Mr.  Grant,  sitting 
down  at  his  desk.  It  was  given,  and  the  good  man,  as 
he  glanced  over  it,  said,  "  You  wrote  a  pamphlet  about 
me  once ; "  and,  without  waiting  a  reply,  handed  back 
the  paper,  having  written  something  upon  it.  The  poor 
bankrupt  expected  to  find  libeller  or  slanderer,  or  some 
thing  like  that  written.  But  no :  there  it  was,  fair  and 
plain,  the  signature  that  was  needed  to  give  him  another 
chance  in  life.  "  I  said  you  would  be  sorry  for  writing 
that  pamphlet,"  the  good  man  went  on.  "I  did  not 


214  CONCERNING  THE   RIGHT   TACK. 

mean  it  as  a  threat.  I  meant  that  some  day  you  would 
know  me  better,  and  see  that  I  did  not  deserve  to  be 
attacked  in  that  way.  And  now,"  said  the  good  man, 
"  tell  me  all  about  your  prospects ;  and  especially  tell 
me  how  your  wife  and  children  are  faring."  The  poor 
trader  told  him,  that  to  partly  meet  his  debts  he  had 
given  up  everything  he  had  in  the  world ;  and  that  for 
many  days  they  had  hardly  had  bread  to  eat.  "  That 
will  never  do,"  said  the  Christian  merchant,  putting  in 
the  poor  man's  hand  money  enough  to  support  the 
pinched  wife  and  children  for  many  weeks.  "  This  will 
last  for  a  little,  and  you  shall  have  more  when  it  is 
gone ;  and  I  shall  find  some  way  to  help  you,  and  by 
God's  blessing  you  will  do  beautifully  yet.  Don't  lose 
heart :  I  '11  stand  by  you  !  "  I  suppose  I  need  not  tell 
you  that  the  poor  man's  full  heart  fairly  overflowed, 
and  he  went  away  crying  like  a  child.  Yes,  the  Right 
Tack  is  the  effectual  thing !  To  meet  evil  with  good 
fairly  beats  the  evil,  and  puts  it  down.  The  poor  debtor 
was  set  on  his  feet  again :  the  hungry  little  children 
were  fed.  And  the  trader  never  published  an  attack 
upon  that  good  man  again  as  long  as  he  lived.  And 
among  the  good  man's  multitude  of  friends,  as  he  grew 
old  among  all  the  things  that  should  accompany  old  age, 
there  was  not  a  truer  or  heartier  one  than  the  old  enemy 
thus  fairly  beaten !  Yes,  my  reader :  let  us  go  upon 
the  Right  Tack! 

And  now  for  the  other  reason  I  promised  to  give  you 
why  I  call  all  this  the  Right  Tack.  It  is  not  merely 
the  most  effectual  thing ;  it  is  the  happiest  thing.  You 
will  feel  jolly  (to  use  a  powerful  and  classical  expres- 


CONCERNING  THE  RIGHT  TACK.  215 

sion)  when,  in  spite  of  strong  temptation  to  take  the 
other  way,  you  resolutely  go  on  the  right  tack.  I  sup 
pose  that  when  the  poor  trader  already  named  went 
away  with  his  full  heart,  feeling  himself  a  different  man 
from  what  he  had  been  when  he  entered  the  merchant's 
room,  and  hastening  home  to  tell  his  wife  and  children 
that  he  had  found  God's  kind  angel  in  the  shape  of  a 
white-haired  old  gentleman  in  a  snuff-colored  suit,  and 
wearing  gaiters,  —  I  suppose  there  would  not  be  many 
happier  men  in  this  world  than  that  truly  Christian 
merchant  prince.  He  was  very  much  accustomed,  in 
deed,  to  the  peculiar  feeling  of  a  man  who  has  returned 
good  for  evil ;  but  this  feeling  is  one  which  no  familiar 
ity  can  bring  into  contempt.  But  suppose  Mr.  Grant 
had  gone  on  the  other  tack ;  said,  "  You  libelled  me 
once,  it  is  my  turn  now ;  you  shall  smart  for  it."  I 
don't  think  any  of  us  would  envy  him  his  malignant  sat 
isfaction.  And  when  he  went  home  that  night  to  his 
grand  house,  and  enjoyed  all  the  advantages  which  came 
of  his  great  wealth,  I  don't  think  he  would  relish  them 
more  for  thinking  of  the  bare  home  where  the  poor 
debtor  had  gone,  with  his  last  hopes  crushed,  and  for 
thinking  of  the  little  hungry  children,  —  of  little  Tom 
sobbing  himself  to  sleep  without  any  supper,  —  of  little 
Mary,  somewhat  older,  saying  with  her  thin,  white  face, 
that  she  did  not  want  any.  At  least,  if  he  had  found 
happiness  in  all  this,  most  human  beings,  with  human 
hearts,  would  class  him  with  devils,  rather  than  with 
men.  Give  me  Lucifer  at  once,  with  horns  and  hoofs, 
rather  than  the  rancorous  old  villain  in  the  snuff-colored 
suit ! 

It  causes  suffering  to  ordinary  human  beings  to   be 


216  CONCERNING  THE  EIGHT   TACK. 

involved  in  strife.  It  is  a  dull,  rankling  pain.  It  has  a 
cross-influence  on  all  you  do.  And  reading  your  Bible, 
and  praying  to  God,  it  will  often  come  across  you  with 
a  sad  sense  of  self-accusing.  You  will  not  be  able  to 
entirely  acquit  yourself  of  blame.  You  will  feel  that 
all  this  is  not  very  consistent  with  your  Christian  pro 
fession,  with  your  seasons  at  the  communion-table,  with 
your  prayers  for  forgiveness  as  you  hope  to  be  forgiven, 
with  the  remembrance  that  in  a  little  while  you  must 
lay  down  your  weary  head  and  die.  The  man  who  has 
dealt  another  a  stinging  blow  in  return  for  some  injury, 
the  man  who  has  made  an  exceedingly  clever  and  bitter 
retort,  in  speech  or  in  writing,  may  feel  a  certain  com 
placency,  thinking  how  well  he  has  done  it,  and  what 
vexation  he  has  probably  caused  to  a  fellow-sinner  and 
fellow-sufferer.  But  he  cannot  be  happy.  He  cannot ! 
He  cannot  know  the  real  glow  of  heart  that  you  will 
feel,  my  reader,  when  God's  blessed  Spirit  has  helped 
you  with  all  your  heart  to  do  something  kind  and  good 
to  an  offending  brother.  Yes,  it  is  the  greatest  luxury 
in  which  a  human  being  can  indulge  himself,  the  luxury 
of  going  upon  the  Right  Tack  when  you  are  strongly 
tempted  to  go  upon  the  Wrong  ! 

I  must  speak  seriously.  I  cannot  help  it.  All  this  is 
unutterably  important,  and  I  cannot  leave  you,  my 
friend,  with  any  show  of  lightness  in  speaking  about  it 
All  this  is  of  the  very  essence  of  our  religion  ;  it  goes 
to  the  great  question,  whether  or  not  we  are  Christian 
people  at  all ;  it  touches  the  very  ground  of  our  accept 
ance  with  God,  and  the  pardon  of  our  manifold  sins. 
There  are  certain  words  never  to  be  forgotten  :  "  If  ye 
forgive  men  their  trespasses,  your  Heavenly  Father  will 


CONCERNING  THE  EIGHT  TACK.  217 

also  forgive  you.  But  if  ye  forgive  not  men  their  tres 
passes,  neither  will  your  Father  forgive  your  trespasses." 
Yes,  the  taint  of  rankling  malice  in  our  hearts,  when  we 
go  to  God  and  ask  for  pardoning  mercy,  will  turn  our 
prayers  into  an  imprecation  for  wrath.  "  Forgive  us 
our  debts,  as  we  forgive  our  debtors " ;  forgive  us  our 
sins  against  Thee,  just  as  much  as  we  forgive  other  men 
their  offences  against  us  ;  that  is,  not  at  all !  Think  of 
the  unforgiving  man  or  woman  who  returns  evil  for  evil 
going  to  God  with  that  prayer  !  I  cannot  say  how  glad 
and  thankful  I  should  be  if  I  thought  that  all  this  I  have 
been  writing  would  really  influence  some  of  those  who 
may  read  this  page  to  resolve,  by  God's  grace,  that 
when  they  are  daily  tempted  to  little  resentments  by 
little  offences,  —  and  it  is  only  by  these  that  most  Chris 
tians  in  actual  life  are  tried,  —  they  will  habitually  go 
on  the  Right  Tack  !  But  remember,  my  friend,  that 
nothing  you  have  read  is  more  real  and  practical,  — 
nothing  bears  more  directly  upon  the  interests  of  the 
life  we  are  daily  leading,  with  all  its  little  worries,  trials, 
and  cares,  —  than  what  I  say  now,  that  it  is  only  by  the 
help  and  grace  of  the  Holy  Spirit  of  God  that  you  can 
ever  thoroughly  and  effectually  do  what  I  mean  by  go 
ing  upon  the  Right  Tack.  A  calm  and  kindly  tempera 
ment  is  good  ;  a  disposition  to  see  what  may  be  said  in 
defence  of  such  as  offend  you  is  good ;  and  doubtless 
these  are  helps,  but  something  far  more  and  higher  is 
needed.  There  must  be  a  loftier  and  more  excellent 
inspiration  than  that  of  the  calm  head  and  the  kind 
heart.  You  will  never  do  anything  rightly,  never  any 
thing  steadfastly,  that  goes  against  the  grain  of  human 
nature,  except  by  the  grace  of  that  Blessed  One  who 
10 


218  CONCERNING  THE  RIGHT  TACK. 

makes  us  new  creatures  in  Christ.  There  will  be  some 
thing  that  will  not  ring  sound  about  all  that  meeting 
evil  with  good,  which  does  not  proceed  from  the  new 
heart,  and  the  right  spirit  sanctified  of  God. 

Now,  let  there  be  no  misunderstanding  of  all  this, 
and  no  pushing  it  into  an  extreme  opposed  to  common 
sense.  All  this  that  has  been  said  has  been  said  con 
cerning  the  little  offences  of  daily  life.  As  regards 
these,  I  believe  that  what  I  have  called  the  Right  Tack 
is  the  effectual  thing  and  the  happy  thing.  But  I  am 
no  advocate  of  the  principle  of  non-resistance.  I  am  no 
member  of  the  Peace  Society.  I  have  no  wish  to  see 
Britain  disband  her  armies,  and  dismantle  her  navy,  and 
lie  as  a  helpless  prey  at  the  mercy  of  any  tyrant  or 
invader.  No :  I  should  wish  our  country's  claws  to  be 
sharp  and  strong ;  that  is  the  way  to  prevent  the  need 
for  their  use  from  arising.  I  should,  with  regret,  but 
without  conscientious  scruple,  shoot  a  burglar  who  in 
tended  to  murder  me.  I  heartily  approve  the  blowing 
of  a  rebel  sepoy  away  from  a  cannon.  And  though  the 
punishment  of  death,  as  inflicted  in  this  country,  is  a 
miserable  necessity,  still  I  believe  it  is  a  necessity,  and 
a  thing  morally  right,  in  almost  every  case  in  which  it 
is  inflicted.  All  that  has  been  said  about  the  returning 
of  good  for  evil  is  to  be  read  in  the  light  of  common 
sense.  There  are  bad  people  whom  you  cannot  tame  or 
put  down,  except  by  the  severe  hand  of  Justice.  And 
in  taming  them  in  the  only  possible  way  you  are  doing 
nothing  inconsistent  with  the  views  set  forth  in  these 
pages.  It  would  take  too  much  time  to  argue  the  mat 
ter  fully  out;  and  it  is  really  needless.  A  wrong- 
headed  man,  a  member  of  the  Peace  Society,  has  pub- 


CONCERNING  THE  RIGHT   TACK.  219 

lished  a  pamphlet  in  which  he  frankly  tells  us  that  if 
he  and  his  wife  and  children  were  about  to  be  mur 
dered  by  a  burglar,  and  if  there  was  no  possibility  of 
preventing  this  murdering  except  by  killing  the  burg 
lar,  then  it  would  be  the  duty  of  a  Christian  to  die  as  a 
martyr  to  his  principles,  and  peaceably  allow  the  burg 
lar  to  murder  him  and  his  family.  Really  there  is  noth 
ing  to  be  said  in  reply  to  such  a  puzzle-head,  except  that 
I  would  just  as  soon  believe  that  black  is  white  as  that 
that  is  a  Christian  duty.  There  are  exceptional  human 
beings  who  are  really  wild  beasts,  and  who  must  be 
treated  precisely  as  a  savage  wild  beast  should  be 
treated.  And  even  in  the  matter  of  injuries  of  a  less 
decided  character  than  the  murdering  of  yourself,  your 
wife,  and  children,  it  is  as  plain  as  need  be  that  a  wise 
and  good  man  may  very  fitly  defend  himself  against  the 
aggression  of  a  ruffian.  When  Mr.  Macpherson  threat 
ened  to  thrash  Dr.  Johnson  for  expressing  doubts  as  to 
the  genuineness  of  Ossian,  Dr.  Johnson  was  quite  right 
to  provide  a  stick  of  great  size  and  weight,  and  to  carry 
it  about  with  him  for  the  purpose  of  self-defence.  And 
while  desirous  to  obey  the  spirit  of  the  Saviour's  com 
mand,  there  are  few  things  of  which  I  feel  more  certain, 
than  that  if  a  blackguard  struck  my  good  friend  Dr. 
A  on  the  right  cheek,  the  blameless  divine  would  not 
turn  the  other  also.  Nor  need  we  make  the  least  objec 
tion  to  the  motto  of  a  certain  Northern  country,  which 
conveys  that  people  had  better  be  careful  how  they  do 
that  country  any  wrong,  inasmuch  as  that  country  won't 
stand  it.  There  is  nothing  amiss  in  the  "  Nemo  me  im- 
pune  lacesset."  Don't  meddle  with  us ;  we  have  not 
the  least  wish  to  meddle  with  you. 


CHAPTER  XII. 


CONCERNING  NEEDLESS  FEARS. 


C  the  present  moment  I  feel  very  uncomfort 
able  ;  not  physically,  but  mentally  and  mor 
ally.  And  I  do  not  know  why.  What  I 
mean  is,  that  a  little  ago  some  disagreeable 
thought  was  presented  to  my  mind  which  put  me  quite 
out  of  sorts.  And  though  I  have  forgot  what  the  dis 
agreeable  thought  was,  its  effect  remains,  and  I  still  feel 
out  of  sorts.  I  am  aware  of  a  certain  moral  aching 
which  I  cannot  refer  to  its  cause.  I  suppose,  my  reader, 
you  have  often  felt  the  like.  You  have  been  conscious 
of  a  certain  gloom,  depression,  bewilderment,  —  not  re 
membering  what  it  was  that  started  it.  But  after  a  little 
time  it  suddenly  flashes  on  you,  and  you  remember  the 
whole  thing. 

I  can  imagine  a  man  going  to  be  hanged,  waking  up 
on  the  fatal  morning  with  a  dull  aching  sense  of  some 
thing  wrong,  he  does  not  know  what,  till  all  at  once  the 
dreadful  reality  glares  upon  him.  Some  of  us  have  had 
the  experience,  as  little  boys,  when  coming  back  to  con 
sciousness  on  the  morning  of  the  day  we  had  to  return 
to  school,  far  away  from  home.  In  certain  cases,  return- 


CONCERNING  NEEDLESS  FEARS.  221 

ing  to  school  is  to  a  boy  not  many  degrees  less  unendur 
able  than  being  hanged  is  to  a  man.  Of  course  there  is 
no  remorse  in  the  case  of  the  little  schoolboy,  and  here 
is  a  discrepance  between  the  cases  suggested.  But  in 
deed  it  is  vain  to  estimate  the  relative  crushing  powers 
of  two  great  trials.  Each  at  the  time  is  just  as  much 
as  one  can  bear. 

But  (to  go  back  a  little)  just  as  a  strong  hand,  seven 
hundred  years  since,  set  a  large  stone  in  its  place  in  a 
cathedral  wall,  and  the  stone  remains  there  to-day, 
though  the  hand  that  placed  it  is  gone  and  forgot,  in  like 
manner  some  painful  reflection  jars  the  human  mind  and 
puts  it  out  of  joint,  and  it  remains  jarred  and  out  of 
joint  after  the  painful  reflection  has  passed  away.  A 
cloud  passes  between  us  and  the  sun,  and  a  sudden 
gloom  and  chill  fall  upon  all  things.  But,  strange  to 
say,  in  the  moral  world,  after  the  cloud  that  brought  the 
gloom  and  chill  has  passed,  the  gloom  and  chill  remain. 
And  thus  a  human  being  may  feel  very  uncomfortable, 
and  know  that  he  has  good  reason  for  being  uncomfort 
able,  yet  not  know  what  the  reason  is.  If  you  receive 
ten  letters  before  breakfast,  you  open  them  all  and  read 
them  hastily.  It  is  very  likely  that  one  of  the  ten  con 
tains  some  rather  disagreeable  communication.  You 
forget,  in  a  minute,  as  you  skim  the  newspaper  and  take 
your  breakfast,  what  that  disagreeable  communication 
was  ;  yet  still  you  take  your  breakfast  with  a  certain 
weight  upon  your  spirits,  with  a  certain  vague  sense  of 
something  amiss. 

What  is  it  that  is  wrong  this  Saturday  evening  at 
9.10  P.  M.  ?  Nothing  is  wrong  physically.  Too  thank 
ful  would  this  writer  be  if  he  could  but  be  assured  that 


222  CONCERNING  NEEDLESS  FEARS. 

on  all  the  Saturday  evenings  of  his  life  he  would  be  as 
happily  placed  as  he  is  now.  To-morrow  he  is  to  preach 
at  his  own  church,  and  during  the  week  all  but  gone  he 
hath  prepared  two  new  discourses  to  be  preached  on 
that  day.  Indurated  roust  be  that  man's  conscience,  or 
very  lightly  must  that  man  take  his  work,  who  does  not 
feel  a  certain  glow  of  satisfaction  on  the  Saturday  eve 
ning  of  a  week  wherein  he  has  prepared  two  new  dis 
courses.  You  remark,  I  don't  say  two  new  sermons. 
No  sensible  mortal  can  prepare,  or  would  try  to  prepare, 
two  new  sermons  in  one  week.  But  he  may  prepare  one 
sermon  and  one  lecture,  which  (being  added  one  to  the 
other)  will  be  found  to  amount  to  two  discourses.  But 
any  one  who  knows  the  long  and  hard  work  which  goes 
to  the  production  of  a  sermon  which  people  may  be  ex 
pected  to  listen  to,  will  feel,  as  he  sews  up  his  manu 
script,  the  peculiar  satisfaction  which  attends  the  con 
templation  of  "  something  attempted,  something  done." 

Yes,  I  remember  now.  Something  I  thought  of  this 
morning  has  come  with  me  all  the  day,  making  me  feel 
gloomy  even  while  forgetting  what  it  was.  You  know 
how  a  severe  sting  from  a  nettle  leaves  behind  it  a  cer 
tain  starting  pain,  hours  after  the  first  heat  of  the  sting- 
is  gone.  So  it  was  here.  And  in  this,  too,  is  a  point 
of  difference  between  the  material  and  moral  world. 
In  the  material  world,  if  a  table  stands  on  three  legs, 
and  you  in  succession  saw  off  the  three  legs,  the  table 
goes  down.  But  in  the  moral  world  (especially  in  the 
case  of  old  women),  if  a  belief  or  a  feeling  founds  upon 
three  reasons  (or  legs),  though  you  in  succession  take 
away  those  reasons,  the  table  often  still  stands  as  before. 


CONCERNING  NEEDLESS  FEARS.  223 

The  physical  table  cannot  do  without  legs.  The  moral 
table  often  stands  firmest  when  it  has  no  legs  whatever. 
The  beliefs  which  men  often  hold  most  resolutely  are 
those  for  which  not  merely  they  can  give  no  reason,  but 
for  which  no  reason  could  be  given  by  anybody. 

I  was  thinking  of  the  fears  which  eat  the  heart  out  of 
so  many  lives.  And  this  was  my  reflection. 

When  I  was  a  boy,  there  was  exhibited  in  London 
what  was  called  a  Centrifugal  Railway.  Let  me  re 
quest  you  earnestly  to  attend  to  the  subjoined  diagram. 

A 

B 


The  line  A  D  C  B  represents  the  Centrifugal  Rail 
way.  You  started  from  the  point  A  in  a  little  carriage. 
It  acquired  a  very  great  velocity  in  running  down  the 
descent  from  A  to  D ;  a  velocity  so  great  that  it  ran 
right  round  the  circle  C,  turning  the  passenger  with  his 
head  downwards,  and  finally  got  safely  to  B.  At  the 
point  B  the  passenger  got  out,  and  if  he  were  a  person  of 
sense  (which,  under  the  circumstances,  was  by  no  means 
probable),  he  resolved  never  to  travel  by  the  Centrifu 
gal  Railway  any  more. 

Now,  you  observe  that  in  turning  the  circle  C  the 
passenger  was  in  a  very  critical  position.  He  had  good 
reason  to  be  thankful  when  the  circle  was  fairly  turned, 
and  he  had,  with  unbroken  bones,  reached  B.  And  it 
struck  me,  that  all  our  life  here  is  like  the  circle  C  on 
the  Centrifugal  Railway.  I  shall  be  able  to  think  dif 
ferently  in  a  day  or  two,  more  hopefully  and  cheerfully ; 


224  CONCERNING  NEEDLESS  FEARS. 

but  it  was  borne  in  upon  me  that  after  all,  my  friends, 
we  are  doing  no  more  in  this  life  than  getting  round  the 
circle  C ;  and  that  there  are  so  many  risks  in  the  way, 
that  we  may  be  very  glad  and  thankful  when  it  is  done. 
He  was  a  wise  man  in  former  days  who  said  (let  me 
translate  his  words  into  my  peculiar  idiom),  "  I  call  no 
man  happy  before  he  has  got  round  the  circle  C."  And 
desponding  times  will  come  to  all,  in  which  they  will 
think  of  the  innumerable  sad  possibilities  which  hang 
over  them,  and  the  sorrowful  certainties  which  are  daily 
drawing  nearer,  and  the  dangers  of  getting  off  the  line 
altogether  and  going  to  destruction.  I  look  ahead, 
many  a  one  will  sometimes  be  disposed  to  say,  and 
there  are  many,  many  things  which  I  know  may  go 
wrong.  0,  I  would  be  thankful  if  I  and  those  dear  to 
me  were  safely  round  the  circle  C,  and  had  got  safely 
to  the  point  B ;  even  though  some  people  shrink  from 
that  latter  point  as  long  as  they  possibly  can. 

Of  course,  this  is  a  gloomy  kind  of  view ;  but  such 
views  will  sometimes  push  themselves  upon  one,  and 
will  not  be  put  off.  I  hope  it  will  go  away  shortly.  It 
will  go  away  all  the  sooner  for  my  having  made  you 
partaker  of  it.  I  have  in  my  mind  an  abstract  eidolon, 
an  image  of  the  reader  of  this  page,  who  is  my  con 
fidential  friend.  To  him  I  have  told  very  many  things 
which  I  have  hardly  ever  told  to  any  one  else.  And  I 
want  him  to  take  his  share  of  this  vexatious  view  about 
the  circle  C,  that  so  it  may  lie  lighter  on  myself.  All 
this  life,  of  push,  struggle,  privation,  trickery,  getting 
on,  failure ;  all  this  life,  in  which  one  man  becomes 
chancellor,  and  another  prime  minister,  and  another  a 
weary  careworn  drudge,  and  another  a  self-satisfied 


CONCERNING  NEEDLESS  FEARS.  225 

blockhead,  and  another  a  poor  needlewoman  laboring 
eighteen  hours  a  day  for  a  few  pence  ;  all  this  life,  of 
kings  and  priests  and  statesmen,  of  cripples  and  beggars, 
of  joyful  hearts  and  sorrowful  hearts,  of  scheming  and 
working,  as  if  there  were  no  other  world,  —  is  no  more 
than  our  getting  round  the  circle  C.  We  are  cast  on 
that  incline  that  begins  from  A,  at  our  birth ;  and  our 
business  is  to  get  safely  to  B. 

Every  day  that  dawns  upon  many  people  is  a  little 
circle  C.  In  the  morning  they  are  aware  that  various 
things  may  go  wrong  in  it ;  and  of  course  they  do  not 
know  what  the  day  may  bring  forth.  We  are  environed 
by  many  unknown  dangers  ;  and  any  day  we  may  say 
the  hasty  word,  or  do  the  foolish  thing,  which  may  in 
volve  us  in  great  trouble.  Even  the  most  sagacious 
and  prudent  man  may  some  day  be  taken  off  his  guard. 
And  the  accidents  which  may  befall  us  are  quite  in 
numerable.  It  is  a  wonder  we  have  got  on  so  far 
in  life  as  we  have,  so  little  battered  by  the  chances  of 
the  way.  You  know  some  one  who  went  out  from  his 
own  home  on  a  frosty  day,  and  in  three  minutes  came 
back  pale  and  fainting,  having  fallen  and  fractured  his 
wrist.  The  pain  was  great ;  and  the  seclusion  from 
work  was  absolute  for  a  while.  What  could  we  do  if 
the  like  happened  to  us  ?  Some  one  else  thought 
but  one  step  of  a  stair  remained  for  him  to  descend, 
while  in  fact  there  were  two  ;  and  the  consequences 
of  that  misapprehension  remained  with  him  painfully  to 
the  end  of  his  life.  And  thus,  looking  back  on  last  year, 
one  feels  it  was  a  most  protracted  and  perilous  circle  C. 
It  was  made  up  of  days,  each  of  which  might  have 
brought  we  know  not  what  with  it.  We  have  got 
10*  o 


226       CONCERNING  NEEDLESS  FEARS. 

safely  round  that  circle,  indeed  ;  but  at  the  beginning 
we  were  not  sure  that  we  should.  If  we  could  have  had 
such  an  assurance  it  would  have  spared  us  many  fears. 
These  fears  are  for  the  most  part  forgot  when  we  look 
back,  and  feel  how  needless  they  were.  But  they  were 
very  real  things  at  the  time  they  were  felt,  and  they 
were  a  terrible  drawback  from  the  pleasures  of  anticipa 
tion  and  of  actual  fact.  When  you  look  back  on  a  few 
weeks  or  months  of  foreign  travel,  the  whole  thing  has 
a  fixed  and  certain  look,  —  the  thing  that  has  been  is  a 
thing  for  ever.  But  what  a  shifting  tract  of  shadows  it 
was  when  you  were  looking  forward  to  it,  and  a  tract 
not  without  several  alarming  spectres  vaguely  stalking 
about  over  it.  Now  we  know  that  we  got  safely  back, 
but  when  we  started  we  did  not  know  that  we  should. 
It  was  like  leaving  the  point  A,  and  flying  round  the 
circle  C  ;  whereas  now  we  have  reached  the  point  B, 
and  we  have  forgot  our  emotions  in  actually  flying  round 
the  circle. 

Two  or  three  days  ago,  three  friends  of  the  writer  sailed 
from  Southampton,  on  their  way  to  Egypt  and  the  Holy 
Land.  They  are  to  be  away  three  months.  They  are 
experienced  travellers,  and  have  seen  very  many  cities 
and  men,  and  doubtless  they  started  with  no  feelings  but 
those  of  pleasurable  anticipation.  When  I  heard  of 
their  going  my  first  feeling  was  one  of  envy.  How  de 
lightful  to  cast  aside  all  this  perpetual  toil  that  overtasks 
one's  strength,  and  keeps  one  ever  on  the  stretch,  and 
have  three  months  for  the  mind  to  regain  its  elasticity, 
much  diminished  by  its  being  kept  always  bent !  And 
then,  what  strange,  unfelt  moods  of  thought  and  feeling 
one  would  experience  when  surrounded  by  the  scenes 


CONCERNING  NEEDLESS  FEARS.  227 

and  associations  of  those  tracts  of  this  world  !  You 
would  accumulate  store  of  new  ideas  and  remembrances ; 
and  in  the  first  sermons  and  essays  you  would  write 
after  returning,  you  would  be  (in  a  moral  sense)  curvet 
ing  about  like  a  young  colt  in  a  pasture,  and  not  plod 
ding  like  an  old  steady  hack  along  the  highway !  But 
when  I  tried  to  put  myself  (in  fancy)  in  the  place  of  my 
friends ;  when  I  thought  of  the  long,  unknown  way,  and 
of  the  unsettled  tribes  of  men ;  when  I  thought  of  Mr. 
Buckle  at  Damascus ;  when  I  thought  of  possible  fevers 
and  of  most  certain  bugs  ;  wrhen  I  thought  how  when 
human  beings  go  to  the  East  for  three  months,  they 
may  chance  never  to  come  back  at  all,  —  then  to  a  quiet, 
stay-at-home  person,  who  has  seen  hardly  anything,  the 
circle  C  appeared  invested  with  many  grounds  of  alarm ; 
and  I  was  reconciled  to  the  fact  that  I  was  not  stepping 
on  board  the  Ellora  amid  a  great  roar  of  escaping  steam, 
nor  going  down  to  the  choky  little  berth,  and  surveying 
my  belongings  there.  Thus  did  I  repress  the  rising 
envy  in  my  breast.  But  when  my  friends  come  back 
again,  portentous  images  with  huge  beards ;  when  they 
have  made  the  Nile,  and  Olivet,  and  Gethsemane,  and 
the  Dead  Sea,  a  possession  for  as  long  as  memory  serves 
them  ;  when  they  have  got  fairly  and  triumphantly 
round  the  circle  C,  and  happily  reached  the  point  of 
safety  B,  —  then,  I  fear,  the  envious  feeling  will  recur. 

O,  if  we  could  but  get  quit  of  our  needless  fears  !  Of 
those  fears  (that  is)  which  take  so  much  from  the  enjoy 
ment  of  life,  and  which  the  result  proves  to  have  been 
quite  groundless ! 

Some  folk,  with  very  robust  .nervous  systems,  prob- 


228  CONCERNING  NEEDLESS  FEARS. 

ably  know  but  little  of  these.  But  from  large  experi 
ence  of  my  fellow-creatures,  rich  and  poor,  and  from  care 
ful  investigation  of  their  features,  I  begin  to  conclude 
that  such  fears  are  very  common  things.  Most  middle- 
aged  faces  have  an  anxious  look.  You  can  see,  even 
when  they  bear  a  cheerful  expression,  that  they  are 
capable  in  a  moment  of  taking  that  painful  aspect  of 
anxiety  and  apprehension.  I  do  not  mean  by  fear  the 
indulgence  of  physical  cowardice  ;  happily  few  of  the 
race  that  inhabits  Britain  will,  on  emergency,  prove  de 
ficient  in  physical  pluck.  But  I  mean  that  most  middle- 
aged  people,  who  have  children,  are  somewhat  cowed  by 
the  unknown  Future  ;  and  that  the  too  ready  imagina 
tion  can  picture  out  a  hundred  things  that  may  go 
wrong.  Anxius  vixi,  wrote  the  man  in  the  Middle 
Ages ;  and  anxious  we  live  yet,  and  probably  always 
will  live,  in  this  world. 

If  you  go  out  in  the  dark  expecting  to  see  a  ghost,  you 
will  very  likely  take  a  white  sheet  hung  on  a  hedge  for' 
one.  And  even  so,  people  in  their  feverish  state  of  appre 
hension  sometimes  are  dreadfully  frightened  by  things 
which  in  a  calmer  mood  they  would  discern  had  nothing 
alarming  about  them.  Every  one  is  sharp  enough  to  see 
this  in  the  case  of  other  people.  You  will  find  a  man  who 
will  say  to  you,  "  What  a  goose  Smith  is  to  worry  him 
self  about  that  table-cloth  on  the  holly,  and  declare  it  is 
an  apparition,  and  that  it  has  bad  news  for  him " ;  and 
in  a  few  minutes  you  will  be  aware  that  the  man  who 
says  all  this  is  furtively  looking  over  his  shoulder  at 
a  white  donkey  feeding  under  a  thick  hedge,  and  dread 
ing  that  it  is  a  polar  bear  about  to  devour  him. 

It  is  curious  to  think  -how  often  these  needless  fears, 


CONCERNING  NEEDLESS  FEARS.  229 

which  cause  so  much  unnecessary  anxiety  and  misery, 
are  the  result  of  pure  miscalculation,  and  this  miscalcu 
lation  not  made  in  a  hurry,  but  deliberately.  I  have  a 
friejid  who  told  me  this :  —  When  he  was  married,  he 
had  exactly  £  500  a  year,  and  no  means  of  adding  to 
that  income.  So  as  he  could  not  increase  his  income, 
his  business  was  to  keep  down  his  expenditure  below  it. 
But  neither  he  nor  his  wife  knew  much  about  household 
management;  and  (as  he  afterwards  found)  he  was  a 
good  deal  victimized  by  his  servants.  After  doing  all 
he  could  to  economize,  he  found,  at  the  end  of  the  third 
month  of  his  financial  year,  that  he  had  spent  exactly 
£  125.  Four  times  £  125,  he  calculated,  made  £  600  a 
year,  which  was  just  £  100  more  than  he  had  got ;  so  the 
debtor's  prison  appeared  to  loom  in  view,  or  some  total 
change  in  his  mode  of  life,  which  it  seemed  almost  im 
possible  for  him  to  make,  without  very  painful  circum 
stances  ;  and,  for  weeks,  the  thought  almost  drove  him 
distracted.  Day  and  night  it  never  was  absent.  At 
length,  one  day,  brooding  over  his  prospects,  he  sud 
denly  discovered  that  four  times  125  make  just  500,  and 
not  600  ;  so  that  all  his  fears  were  groundless.  He  was 
relieved,  he  told  me ;  but  somehow  his  heart  had  been 
so  burdened  and  sunk  by  those  anxious  weeks,  that 
though  the  cause  of  anxiety  was  removed,  it  was  a  long 
time  before  it  seemed  to  recover  its  spring. 

Now  my  friend  had  all  his  wits  about  him.  There 
was  nothing  whatever  of  that  causeless  delusion  which 
shades  off  into  insanity.  But  somehow  he  thought  that 
125  X  4  =  600  ;  and  his  conclusion  was  that  ruin 
stared  him  in  the  face. 

I  have  heard  of  a  more  touching  case.      A  certain 


230  CONCERNING  NEEDLESS  FEARS. 

man  brought  to  a  friend  a  sum  of  money,  rather  less 
than  a  hundred  pounds,  and  asked  the  friend  to  keep  it 
for  him.  He  said  it  was  all  he  had  in  the  world,  and 
that  he  did  not  know  what  he  was  to  do  when  it  was 
gone.  He  had  been  a  quite  rich  man ;  but  one  of  those 
swindling  institutions  whose  directors  ought  to  be  hung, 
and  are  not,  had  involved  hirn  in  great  money  responsi 
bilities  by  its  downfall.  In  a  few  days  after  leaving  the 
money  with  his  friend,  the  poor  man  committed  suicide. 
Then  his  affairs  were  examined  by  competent  persons  ; 
and  it  was  found  that  after  meeting  all  possible  lia 
bilities,  he  had  been  worth  several  hundreds  a  year. 
But  the  poor  fellow  had  miscalculated ;  and  here  was 
the  tragic  consequence. 

No  doubt,  he  had  been  so  terribly  apprehensive,  that 
he  had  been  afraid  to  make  a  thorough  examination  as 
to  how  his  affairs  stood.  Human  beings  often  undergo 
much  needless  fear,  because  they  are  afraid  to  search 
out  all  the  facts.  For  fear  of  finding  the  fact  worse 
than  they  fear,  they  often  fear  what  is  much  worse  than 
the  fact.  They  go  on  through  life  thinking  they  have 
seen  a  ghost,  and  miserable  in  the  thought ;  whereas,  if 
they  had  but  screwed  their  courage  to  the  point  of  ex 
amining,  they  would  have  found  it  was  no  more  than  a 
table-cloth  drying  upon  a  line  between  two  poles.  O, 
that  we  could  all,  forever,  get  rid  of  this  moral  coward 
ice  !  If  you  think  there  is  something  the  matter  with 
your  heart,  go  to  the  doctor  and  let  him  examine. 
Probably  there  is  nothing  earthly  wrong.  And  even  if 
there  be,  it  is  better  to  know  the  worst  than  live  on 
week  after  week  in  a  vague,  wretched  fear.  Let  us  do 
the  like  with  our  affairs.  Let  us  do  the  like  with  our 


CONCERNING  NEEDLESS  FEARS.  231 

religious  difficulties,  with  our  theological  perplexities. 
The  very  worst  thing  you  can  do  is  to  lock  the  closet 
door  when  you  think  probably  there  is  a  skeleton  within. 
Fling  it  wide  open ;  search  with  a  paraffin  lamp  into 
every  corner.  A  hundred  to  one,  there  is  no  skeleton 
there  at  all.  But  from  youth  to  age,  we  must  be  bat 
tling  with  the  dastardly  tendency  to  walk  away  from  the 
white  donkey  in  the  shadow,  which  we  ought  to  walk 
up  to.  I  have  seen  a  little  child,  who  had  cut  her  finger, 
entreat  that  it  might  just  be  tied  up,  without  ever  being 
looked  at ;  she  was  afraid  to  look  at  it.  But  when  it 
was  looked  at,  and  washed  and  sorted,  she  saw  how  little 
a  thing  it  was  for  all  the  blood  that  came  from  it ;  and 
about  nine-tenths  of  her  fear  fled  away. 

You  have  heard  of  Mr.  Elwes,  the  wealthy  miser, 
frightening  a  guest  by  walking  into  his  bedroom  during 
the  night,  and  saying,  "  Sir,  I  have  just  been  robbed  of 
seven  guineas  and  a  half,  which  was  all  I  had  in  the 
world ! "  Here,  of  course,  we  enter  the  domain  of 
proper  insanity.  For  the  fears  which  a  man  of  vast 
fortune  has  lest  he  may  die  in  the  workhouse  belong 
essentially  to  the  same  class  with  those  of  the  man  who 
thinks  he  is  glass,  and  that  if  he  falls  he  will  break ;  or 
who  thinks  he  is  butter,  and  if  he  goes  near  the  fire  he 
will  melt.  And  though  all  needless  fears  are  morbid 
things,  which  the  healthy  mind  would  shake  off,  yet 
there  is  a  vast  distance  between  the  morbid  apprehen 
sions  and  the  morbid  depressions  of  the  practically  sane 
man,  and  the  phenomena  of  the  mind  which  is  truly 
insane. 

The  truth  seems  to  be,  that  some  people  must  have  a 


232  CONCERNING  NEEDLESS  FEARS. 

certain  amount  of  misery ;  and  it  will  attach  itself  to 
any  peg.  If  not  to  this,  then  to  another ;  but  the 
misery  is  due.  And  I  defy  you  by  any  means  to  lift 
such  people  above  the  slough  of  their  apprehensions. 
As  you  remove  each  cause  of  alarm,  they  will  fix  upon 
another.  First,  they  fear  that  their  means  will  not  carry 
them  from  year's  end  to  year's  end.  That  fear  proves 
groundless.  Next  they  fear  that  though  their  present 
income  is  ample,  somehow  it  will  fall  off.  That  fear 
proves  groundless.  Next,  they  are  in  dread  as  to  the 
provision  for  their  children  ;  and  here,  doubtless,  most 
men  can  find  a  cause  of  anxiety  that  will  last  them 
through  all  their  life.  But  it  is  their  nature  to  be 
always  imagining  something  horrible.  They  live  in 
dread  that  they  may  quarrel  with  some  friend,  or  that 
some  general  crash  will  come  some  day,  they  don't  know 
how.  And  if  all  other  causes  of  apprehension  were 
absolutely  removed,  they  would  make  themselves 
wretched  to  a  suitable  degree  by  fearing  lest  an  earth 
quake  should  swallow  up  Great  Britain,  or  that  Dr. 
Cumming's  calculations  as  to  the  end  of  the  world  may 
prove  true.  In  short,  if  a  human  being  be  of  a  nervous, 
anxious  temperament,  it  is  as  certain  that  such  a  human 
being  will  find  some  peg  to  hang  his  fears  upon,  as  it  is 
that  a  man,  who  is  the  possessor  of  a  hat,  will  find 
something,  wherever  he  goes,  to  hang  it  or  lay  it  upon. 
All  this  seems  to  be  especially  true  in  the  case  of 
people  who  have  been  heavily  tried  in  youth.  Human 
beings  may  be  subjected  to  a  treatment  in  their  early 
years  that  seems  to  take  the  hopeful  spring  out  of  them. 
Unless  where  there  is  very  unusual  stamina  of  mind  and 
body,  they  never  quite  get  over  it.  You  may  damage  a 


CONCERNING  NEEDLESS  FEARS.  233 

man  so  that  he  will  never  quite  get  over  it,  —  you  may 
give  the  youthful  mind  a  wrench  whose  evil  effect  will 
cling  to  it  through  all  life.  There  are  things  in  the 
moral  world  which  are  like  an  injury  to  the  spine,  — 
never  recovered  from ;  but  that  grows  and  strengthens 
with  the  man's  growth  and  strength ;  and  no  good  for 
tune,  no  happiness  coming  afterwards,  can  ever  make 
amends.  The  evil  has  been  done,  and  it  cannot  be 
undone. 

You  have  beheld  a  horse,  no.  more  than  six  years  of 
age,  but  which  is  dull  and  spiritless,  and  its  forelegs 
somewhat  bent  and  shaky.  Why  are  these  things  so  ? 
It  has  easy  work  now,  good  feeding,  kind  usage.  Yes, 
but  it  was  driven  when  too  young.  It  was  set  to  hard 
work  then,  and  the  creature  never  has  got  over  it  and 
never  will.  It  is  too  late  for  any  kindness  now  to  make 
up  for  the  mischief  done  at  three  years  old. 

I  am  firmly  persuaded  it  is  so  with  many  human  be 
ings.  They  had  an  unhappy  home  as  little  boys,  the 
love  of  the  beautiful  in  nature  and  art  was  starved  out 
in  them.  They  were  committed  to  the  care  of  a  self- 
conceited  person,  utterly  devoid  of  common  sense.  All 
mirth  was  forbidden  as  something  sinful.  Life  was  made 
hard  and  savorless.  They  grew  up  under  a  bitter  sense 
of  injustice  and  oppression,  and  with  the  conviction  that 
they  were  hopelessly  misunderstood.  Or,  later,  the 
weight  of  care  came  down  upon  them  very  heavily. 
There  are  many  people  who,  for  most  of  the  years  be 
tween  twenty  and  thirty,  never  know  what  a  light  heart 
is.  And  by  such  things  as  these  the  spring  of  the  spirit 
is  broken.  A  dogged  steadfastness  of  purpose  may  re 
main,  but  the  elasticity  is  gone.  The  writer  has  no 


234  CONCERNING  NEEDLESS  FEARS. 

knowledge  of  Mr.  Thackeray's  character  and  career  ex 
cept  from  the  accounts  of  these  which  have  been  pub 
lished  since  his  death  by  some  who  knew  him  well.  But 
it  is  strongly  impressed  on  one  in  reading  these,  that, 
amid  all  the  success  and  fame  and  love  of  his  latter  years, 
a  certain  tone  of  melancholy  remained,  testifying  that 
former  days  of  unappreciated  toil,  of  care,  and  anxiety, 
had  left  a  trace  that  never  could  go.  It  is  only  of 
a  limited  and  exceptional  order  of  troubles  that  the 
memorable  words  can  .be  spoken  with  any  shade  of 
truth  :  Forsan  et  hcec  olim  meminisse  juvabit.  I  do  not 
believe  that  the  memory  of  pure  misery  can  ever  be 
other  than  a  miserable  thing. 

If  this  were  a  sermon,  I  should  now  go  on  to  set 
forth,  at  full  length,  what  I  esteem  to  be  the  best  and 
worthiest  means  of  getting  free  from  those  needless 
fears  of  which  we  have  been  thinking.  But  in  this 
essay,  I  pass  these  briefly  by  for  the  present ;  and  pro 
ceed  to  suggest  a  lesser  cure  for  needless  anxiety,  which 
is  not  without  its  wholesome  effect  on  some  minds. 

I  believe  that  when  you  are  worrying  yourself  by 
imagining  all  kinds  of  evils  as  likely  to  befall  you,  it 
will  do  you  a  great  deal  of  good  to  be  allowed  to  see 
something  of  other  people  who  are  always  expecting 
something  awful  to  happen,  and  with  a  morbid  inge 
nuity  devising  ways  of  making  themselves  miserable. 
You  will  discern  how  ridiculous  such  people  look ;  how 
irritating  they  are ;  how,  so  far  from  exciting  sympathy, 
they  excite  indignation.  The  Spartans  were  right  to 
make  their,  slaves  drunk,  and  thus  to  cure  their  chil 
dren  of  the  least  tendency  to  the  vice  of  drunkenness, 
by  letting  them  see  how  ugly  it  looks  in  another.  I 


CONCERNING  NEEDLESS  FEAES.  235 

request  Mr.  Snarling  to  take  notice,  that  when  I  say  the 
Spartans  were  right  in  doing  this,  I  don't  mean  to  say 
that  they  did  an  act  which  is  in  a  moral  sense  to  be 
commended  or  justified.  All  I  mean  is,  that  they  took 
a  very  effectual  means  to  compass  the  end  they  had  in 
view.  You  never  feel  the  badness  of  your  own  faults 
so  keenly  as  when  you  see  them  carried  a  little  further 
in  somebody  else.  And  so  a  human  being,  naturally 
very  nervous  and  evil-foreboding,  is  corrected,  when  he 
sees  how  absurd  it  looks  in  another.  My  friend  Jones 
told  me,  that,  after  several  months  of  extremely  hard 
head-work,  which  had  lowered  his  nervous  system,  he 
found  himself  getting  into  a  way  of  vaguely  dreading 
what  might  come  next,  and  of  receiving  his  letters  in 
the  morning  with  many  anticipations  of  evil.  But  hap 
pily  a  friend  came  to  visit  him,  who  carried  all  this 
about  a  hundred  degrees  further,  who  had  come  through 
all  his  life  expecting  at  least  an  earthquake  daily,  if  not 
the  end  of  the  world.  And  Jones  was  set  right.  In 
the  words  of  Wordsworth,  "  He  looked  upon  him,  and 
was  calmed  and  cheered."  Jones  saw  how  like  a  fool 
his  friend  seemed ;  and  there  came  a  healthy  reaction ; 
and  he  opened  his  letter-box  bravely  every  morning, 
and  was  all  right  again.  Yes,  let  us  see  the  Helot 
drunk,  and  it  will  teach  us  to  keep  sober.  My  friend 
Gray  told  me  that  for  some  little  space  he  felt  a  grow 
ing  tendency  to  scrubbiness  in  money  matters.  But 
having  witnessed  pinching  and  paring  (without  the  least 
need  for  them)  carried  to  a  transcendent  degree  by 
some  one  else,  the  very  name  of  economy  was  made  to 
stink  in  his  nostrils ;  and  he  felt  a  mad  desire  to  pitch 
half-crowns  about  the  streets  wherever  he  went.  In 


236  CONCERNING  NEEDLESS  FEAES. 

this  case  the  reaction  went  too  far ;  but  in  a  week  or 
two  Gray  came  back  to  the  middle  course,  which  is  the 
safest  and  best. 

But,  after  all,  the  right  and  true  way  of  escaping  from 
what  Dr.  Newman  has  so  happily  called  "  care's  un 
thankful  gloom,"  and  of  casting  off  needless  fears,  lies 
in  a  different  direction  altogether.  It  was  wise  advice 
of  Sidney  Smith,  when  he  said  that  those  who  desire  to 
go  hopefully  and  cheerfully  through  their  work  in  this 
life  should  "  take  short  views  "  ;  not  plan  too  far  ahead ; 
take  the  present  blessing  and  be  thankful  for  it.  It  was 
indeed  the  best  of  all  possible  advice ;  for  it  was  but  a 
repetition,  in  another  form,  of  the  counsel  of  the  Kind 
est  and  Wisest,  "  Take,  therefore,  no  thought  for  the 
morrow,  for  the  morrow  shall  take  thought  for  the 
things  of  itself:  Sufficient  unto  the  day  is  the  evil 
thereof."  There  is  no  doubt  whatever  that  the  true 
origin  of  all  these  forebodings  of  evil  is  our  lack  of  trust 
in  God.  We  all  bear  a  far  greater  burden  of  anxiety 
than  we  need  bear,  just  because  we  will  try  to  bear  our 
burden  for  ourselves,  instead  of  casting  it  on  a  stronger 
arm.  We  try  to  provide  for  our  children  and  ourselves, 
forgetting  the  sure  promise  to  all  humble  Christian  peo 
ple,  that  "  the  Lord  will  provide."  And  when  we  seek 
to  cast  off  our  load  of  care  by  the  help  of  those  comfort 
able  words  of  Holy  Scripture  which  invite  us  to  trust 
everything  to  God,  we  try  too  much  to  reason  ourselves 
into  the  assurance  that  we  need  not  be  so  care-laden  as 
we  are.  We  forget  that  the  only  way  in  which  it  is  pos 
sible  for  us  to  believe  these  words  in  our  heart,  and  to 
take  the  comfort  of  them,  is  by  heartily  asking  God  that 
they  may  be  carried  home  to  us  with  the  irresistible 


CONCERNING  NEEDLESS  FEARS.       237 

demonstration  of  the  Holy  Spirit.  How  the  circle  C 
would  lose  its  fears,  if  we  did  but  feel,  by  His  gracious 
teaching,  that  it  is  the  way  which  God  designed  for  us, 
and  that  He  will  "  keep  us  in  all  our  ways  ! "  When 
ever  I  see  man  or  woman,  early  old  with  anxiety,  and 
with  a  face  deeply  lined  with  care,  I  think  of  certain 
words  which  deserve  infinitely  better  than  to  be  printed 
in  letters  of  gold,  and  I  wish  that  such  a  one,  and  that 
all  I  care  for,  were  numbered  among  the  people  who 
have  a  right  to  take  these  words  for  their  own :  — 

"  Be  careful  for  nothing ;  but  in  everything,  by  prayer 
and  supplication,  with  thanksgiving,  let  your  requests  be 
made  known  unto  God.  And  the  peace  of  God,  which 
passeth  all  understanding,  shall  keep  your  hearts  and 
minds  through  Christ  Jesus." 


CHAPTER    XIII. 


BEATEN. 


0  you  know  this  peculiar  feeling?     I  speak 

to  men  in  middle  age. 

To  be  bearing  up  as  manfully  as  you  can  ; 

putting  a  good  face  on  things ;  trying  to  per 
suade  yourself  that  you  have  done  very  fairly  in  life 
after  all ;  and  all  of  a  sudden  to  feel  that  merciful  self- 
deception  fail  you,  and  just  to  break  down ;  to  own  how 
bitterly  beaten  and  disappointed  you  are,  and  what  a  sad 
and  wretched  failure  you  have  made  of  life  ? 

There  is  no  one  in  the  world  we  all  try  so  hard  to 
cheat  and  delude  as  ourself.  How  we  hoodwink  that 
individual,  and  try  to  make  him  look  at  things  through 
rose-colored  spectacles !  Like  the  poor  little  girl  in 
Mr.  Dickens's  touching  story,  we  make  believe  very 
much.  But  sometimes  we  are  not  able  to  make  believe. 
The  illusion  goes.  The  bare,  unvarnished  truth  forces 
itself  upon  us,  and  we  see  what  miserable  little  wretches 
we  are ;  how  poor  and  petty  are  our  ends  in  life,  and 
what  a  dull  weary  round  it  all  is.  You  remember  the 
poor  old  half-pay  officer,  of  whom  Charles  Lamb  tells 
us.  He  was  not  to  be  disillusioned.  He  asked  you  to 


BEATEN.  239 

hand  him  the  silver  sugar-tongs  in  so  confident  a  tone, 
that  though  your  eyes  testified  that  it  was  but  a  tea 
spoon,  and  that  of  Britannia  metal,  a  certain  spell  was 
cast  over  your  mind.  But  rely  on  it,  though  that  half- 
starved  veteran  kept  up  in  this  way  before  people,  he 
would  often  break  down  when  he  was  alone.  It  would 
suddenly  rush  upon  him  what  a  wretched  old  humbug 
he  was. 

Is  it  sometimes  so  with  all  of  us  ?  We  are  none  of 
us  half-satisfied  with  ourselves.  We  know  we  are  poor 
creatures,  though  we  try  to  persuade  ourselves  that  we 
are  tolerably  good.  At  least,  if  we  have  any  sense,  this 
is  so.  Yet  I  greatly  envied  .a  man  whom  I  passed  in 
the  street  yesterday ;  a  stranger,  a  middle-aged  person. 
His  nose  was  elevated  in  the  air ;  he  had  a  supercilious 
demeanor,  expressive  of  superiority  to  his  fellow-crea 
tures,  and  contempt  for  them.  Perhaps  he  was  a 
prince,  and  so  entitled  to  look  down  on  ordinary  folk. 
Perhaps  he  was  a  bagman.  The  few  princes  I  have 
ever  seen  had  nothing  of  his  uplifted  aspect.  But  what 
a  fine  thing  it  would  be  to  be  able  always  to  delude 
yourself  with  the  belief  that  you  are  a  great  and  impor 
tant  person ;  to  be  always  quite  satisfied  with  yourself 
and  your  position.  There  are  people  who,  while  repeat 
ing  certain  words  in  the  litany,  feel  as  if  it  was  a  mere 
form,  signifying  nothing,  to  call  themselves  miserable  sin 
ners.  There  are  some  who  say  these  words  sorrowfully 
from  their  very  heart,  feeling  that  they  express  God's 
truth.  They  know  what  weak,  silly,  sinful  beings  they 
are ;  they  know  what  a  poor  thing  they  have  made  of 
life,  with  all  their  hard  work,  and  all  their  planning  and 
scheming.  In  fact,  they  feel  beaten,  disappointed, 


240  BEATEN. 

down.  The  high  hopes  with  which  they  started  are 
blighted  ;  were  blighted  long  ago.  They  think,  with  a 
bitter  laugh,  of  their  early  dreams  of  eminence,  of  suc- 
-cess,  of  happiness ;  and  sometimes,  after  holding  up  for 
a  while  as  well  as  they  could,  they  feel  they  can  do  it 
no  longer.  Their  heart  fails  them.  They  sit  down  and 
give  up  altogether.  Great  men  and  good  men  have 
done  it.  It  is  a  comfort  to  many  a  poor  fellow  to  think 
of  Elijah,  beaten  and  sick  at  heart,  sitting  down  under  a 
scrubby  bush  at  evening  far  in  the  bare  desert,  and  feel 
ing  there  was  no  more  left,  and  that  he  could  bear  no 
more.  Thank  God  that  the  verse  is  in  the  Bible. 

"  But  he  himself  went  a  day's  journey  into  the  wilder 
ness,  and  came  and  sat  down  under  a  juniper-tree  ;  and 
he  requested  for  himself  that  he  might  die,  and  said, 
It  is  enough :  now,  0  Lord,  take  away  my  life,  for  I 
am  not  better  than  my  fathers." 

I  thought  of  Elijah  in  the  wilderness  the  other  night. 
I  saw  the  great  prophet  again.  For  human  nature  is 
the  same  in  a  great  prophet  as  in  a  poor  little  hungry 
boy. 

At  nine  o'clock  on  Saturday  evening,  I  heard  pitiful, 
subdued  sobs  and  crying  outside.  I  know  the  kind  of 
thing  that  means  some  one  fairly  beaten :  not  angry, 
not  bitter ;  smashed. ,  I  opened  the  front  door,  and  found 
a  little  boy,  ten  years  old,  sitting  on  the  steps,  crying. 
I  asked  him  what  was  the  matter.  I  see  the  thin,  white, 
hungry,  dirty  little  face.  He  would  have  slunk  away, 
if  he  could :  he  plainly  thought  his  case  beyond  all 
mending.  But  I  brought  him  in,  and  set  him  on  a  chair 
in  the  lobby,  and  he  told  his  story.  He  had  a  large 
bundle  of  sticks  in  a  ragged  sack,  —  firewood.  At  three 


BEATEN.  241 

o'clock  that  afternoon,  he  had  come  out  to  sell  them. 
His  mother  was  a  poor  washerwoman,  in  the  most 
wretched  part  of  the  town :  his  father  was  killed  a 
fortnight  ago  by  falling  from  a  scaffold.  He  had  walked 
a  long  way  through  the  streets  :  about  three  miles.  He 
had  tried  all  the  afternoon  to  sell  his  sticks,  but  had 
sold  only  a  halfpenny  worth.  He  was  lame,  poor  little 
man,  from  a  sore  leg,  but  managed  to  carry  his  heavy 
load.  But  at  last,  going  down  some  poor  area  stair  in 
the  dark,  he  fell  down  a  whole  flight  of  steps,  and  hurt 
his  sore  leg  so  that  he  could  not  walk,  and  also  got  a 
great  cut  on  the  forehead.  He  had  got  just  the  half 
penny  for  his  poor  mother :  he  had  been  going  about 
with  his  burden  for  six  hours,  with  nothing  to  eat.  But 
he  turned  his  face  homewards,  carrying  his  sticks,  and 
struggled  on  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile,  and  then  he 
broke  down.  He  could  go  no  farther.  In  the  dark 
cold  night  he  sat  down  and  cried.  It  was  not  the  cry 
ing  of  one  who  hoped  to  attract  attention  :  it  was  the 
crying  of  flat  despair. 

The  first  thing  I  did  (which  did  not  take  a  moment) 
was  to  thank  God  that  my  door -steps  had  been  his  juni 
per-tree.  Then  I  remembered  that  "the  first  thing  God 
did  when  Elijah  broke  down  was  to  give  him  something 
to  eat.  Yes,  it  is  a  great  thing  to  keep  up  physical 
nature.  And  the  little  man  had  had  no  food  since  three 
o'clock  till  nine.  So  there  came,  brought  by  kind  hands 
(not  mine),  several  great  slices  of  bread  and  butter 
(jam  even  was  added),  and  a  cup  of  warm  tea.  The 
spirit  began  to  come  a  little  into  the  child  ;  and  he 
thought  he  could  manage  to  get  home,  if  we  would  let 
him  leave  his  sticks  till  Monday.  We  asked  him  what 
11  p 


242  BEATEN. 

he  would  have  got  for  his  sticks  if  he  had  sold  them  all : 
ninepence.  Under  the  circumstances,  it  appeared  that 
a  profit  of  a  hundred  per  cent  was  not  exorbitant,  so  he 
received  eighteen  pence,  which  he  stowed  away  some 
where  in  his  rags,  and  the  sack  went  away,  and  re 
turned  with  all  the  sticks  emptied  out.  Finally,  an  old 
gray  coat  of  rough  tweed  came,  and  was  put  upon  the 
little  boy,  and  carefully  buttoned,  forming  a  capital  great 
coat.  And  forasmuch  as  his  trowsers  were  most  unusu 
ally  ragged,  a  pair  of  such  appeared,  and  being  wrapped 
up  were  placed  in  the  sack  along  with  a  good  deal  of 
bread  and  butter.  How  the  heart  of  the  child  had  by 
this  time  revived !  He  thought  he  could  go  home 
nicely.  And  having  very  briefly  asked  the  Father  of 
the  fatherless  to  care  for  him,  I  beheld  him  limp  away 
in  the  dark.  All  this  is  supremely  little  to  talk  about. 
But  it  was  quite  a  different  thing  to  see.  To  look  at 
the  poor  starved  little  face,  and  the  dirty  hand  like  a 
claw ;  to  think  of  ten  years  old ;  to  think  of  one's  own 
children  in  their  warm  beds ;  to  think  what  all  this  would 
have  been  to  one's  self  as  a  little  child.  0,  if  I  had  a 
four-leaved  shamrock,  what  a  turn-over  there  should  be 
in  this  world  ! 

When  the  little  man  went  away,  I  came  back  to  my 
work.  I  took  up  my  pen,  and  tried  to  write,  but  I  could 
not.  I  thought  I  saw  many  human  beings  besides 
Elijah  in  the  case  of  that  child.  I  tried  to  enter  into 
the  feeling  (it  was  only  too  easy)  of  that  poor  little 
thing  in  his  utter  despair.  It  was  sad  enough  to  carry 
about  the  heavy  bundle  hour  after  hour,  and  to  sell  only 
the  halfpenny  worth.  But  it  was  dreadful,  after  tum 
bling  down  the  stair,  to  find  he  was  not  able  to  walk ; 


BEATEN.  243 

and  still  to  be  struggling  to  carry  back  his  load  to  his 
bare  home,  which  was  two  miles  distant  from  this  spot. 
And  at  last  to  sit  down  in  misery  on  the  step  in  the 
dark  night,  stunned.  He  would  have  been  quite  happy 
if  he  had  got  ninepence,  God  help  him.  When  I  was  a 
boy,  I  remember  how  a  certain  person  who  embittered 
my  life  in  those  days  was  wont  to  say,  as  though  it 
summed  up  all  the  virtues,  that  such  a  person  was  a 
man  who  looked  at  both  sides  of  a  shilling  before  spend 
ing  it.  It  is  such  a  sight  as  the  little  boy  on  the  step 
that  makes  one  do  the  like,  that  helps  one  to  understand 
the  power  there  is  in  a  shilling.  But  many  human 
beings,  who  can  give  a  shilling  rather  than  take  it,  are 
as  really  beaten  as  the  little  boy.  They  too  have  got 
their  bags,  filled  with  no  matter  what.  Perhaps  poetry, 
perhaps  metaphysics,  perhaps  magazine  articles,  perhaps 
sermons.  They  thought  they  would  find  a  market,  and 
sell  these  at  a  great  profit,  but  they  found  none.  They 
have  fallen  down  a  stair,  and  broken  their  leg  and 
bruised  their  head.  And  now,  in  a  moral  sense,  they 
have  sat  down  in  the  dark  on  a  step,  and,  though  not 
crying,  are  gazing  about  them  blankly. 
Perhaps  you  are  one  of  them. 


CHAPTER    XIV. 


GOSSIP. 

HO  invents  the  current  lies  ?  I  suppose  a 
multitude  of  people  give  each  their  little 
contribution,  till  the  piece  of  malignant 
tattle  is  formed  into  shape. 
There  are  many  people,  claiming  to  be  very  religious 
people,  who  are  very  willing  to  repeat  a  story  to  the 
prejudice  of  some  one  they  know,  though  they  have  very 
little  reason  to  think  it  true,  and  have  strong  suspicions 
that  it  is  false.  There  is  a  lesser  number  of  respectable 
people,  who  will  positively  invent  and  retail  a  story  to 
the  prejudice  of  some  one  they  know,  being  well  aware 
that  it  is  false.  In  short,  most  people  who  repeat  ill- 
natured  stories  may  be  arranged  in  these  two  classes :  — 

1.  People  who  lie. 

2.  People  who  lie,  and  know  they  lie. 

The  intelligent  reader  is  requested  to  look  upon 
the  words  which  follow,  and  then  he  will  be  informed 
about  a  malicious,  vulgar,  and  horribly  stupid  piece  of 
gossip :  — 

MR.  AND  MRS.  GREEN 


DRESS  FOR  DINNER. 


GOSSIP.  245 

My  friend  Mr.  Green  lately  told  me,  that  quite  by 
accident  he  found  that  in  the  little  country  town  where 
he  lives,  and  of  which  indeed  he  is  the  vicar,  it  had 
come  to  be  generally  reported  that  in  every  bedroom  in 
his  house  a  framed  and  glazed  placard  was  hung  above 
the  mantelpiece,  bearing  the  above  inscription.  Miss 
Tarte  and  Mr.  Fatuous  had  eagerly  disseminated  the 
rumor,  though,  it  was  impossible  to  say  who  had  origi 
nated  it.  Probably  Miss  Tarte  had  one  day  said  to  Mr. 
Fatuous  that  Mr.  Green  ought  to  have  such  a  placard 
so  exhibited,  and  that  some  day  Mr.  Green  probably 
would  come  to  have  such  a  placard  so  exhibited.  A 
few  days  afterwards  Mr.  Fatuous  said  to  Miss  Tarte 
that  he  supposed  Mr.  Green  must  have  his  placards  up 
by  this  time.  And  next  day,  on  the  strength  of  that 
statement,  Miss  Tarte  told  a  good  many  people  that  the 
placards  were  actually  up.  And  the  statement  was 
willingly  received  and  eagerly  repeated  by  those  persons 
in  that  town  who  are  always  delighted  to  have  something 
to  tell  which  shows  that  any  one  they  know  has  done 
something  silly  or  bad.  At  last  a  friend  of  Mr.  Green's 
thought  it  right  he  should  know  what  Mr.  Fatuous  and 
Miss  Tarte  were  saying.  And  Mr.  Green,  who  is  a 
resolute  person,  took  means  to  cut  these  individuals 
short.  My  friend  has  exactly  one  spare  bedroom  in  his 
house,  and  no  one  who  is  not  an  idiot  need  be  told  that 
no  such  inscription  was  ever  displayed  or  ever  dreamt 
of  in  his  establishment.  Next  Sunday  Mr.  Green 
preached  a  sermon  from  the  text,  Thou  shalt  not  bear 
false  witness  against  thy  neighbor.  And  after  pointing 
out  that  it  was  unnecessary  that  the  commandment 
should  forbid  false  witness  to  the  advantage  of  one's 


246  GOSSIP. 

neighbor,  inasmuch  as  nobody  was  likely  ever  to  bear 
that,  he  went  on  to  point  out,  with  great  force  of  argu 
ment,  that  if  man  or  woman  habitually  told  lies  to  the 
prejudice  of  their  neighbors,  their  Christian  character 
might  justly  be  held  as  an  imperfect  one,  even  though 
they  should  attend  all  the  week-day  services  and  mis 
sionary  society  meetings  within  several  miles.  Mr. 
Fatuous  and  Miss  Tarte  complained  that  this  was  very 
unsound  doctrine.  And  Miss  Tarte  wrote  a  letter  to 
the  Record,  in  which  she  stated  that  the  vicar  habitu 
ally  preached  the  doctrines  of  Bishop  Colenso. 

One  is  most  unwilling  to  believe  it,  yet  I  am  com 
pelled  by  the  logic  of  facts  to  think  that  malice  towards 
all  their  fellow-creatures  is  an  essential  part  of  the  con 
stitution  of  many  people.  All  the  particles  of  matter, 
we  know,  exert  on  each  other  a  mutual  repulsion.  Is  it 
so  with  the  atoms  that  make  up  human  society  ?  Many 
people  dislike  a  man  just  because  they  know  nothing 
about  him.  And  when  they  come  to  know  something 
about  him,  they  are  sure  to  dislike  him  even  more.  In 
a  simple  state  of  society,  if  you  disliked  a  man  you 
would  knock  him  on  the  head.  If  an  Irishman,  you 
would  shoot  him  from  behind  a  hedge.  The  modern 
civilized  means  of  wreaking  your  wrath  on  the  man  you 
dislike  is  different.  You  repeat  tattle  to  his  prejudice. 
You  tell  lies  about  him.  This  is  the  weapon  of  warfare 
in  Christian  countries.  Two  things  there  are  the  wise 
man  will  not  trust,  if  said  by  various  persons  we  all 
know :  — 

1.  Anything  to  their  own  advantage. 

2.  Anything  to  their  neighbor's  prejudice. 

It  is  a  bad  sign  of  human  nature,  that  many  men 


GOSSIP.  247 

should  have  so  much  to  say  to  the  prejudice  of  any  one 
they  know.  But  it  is  a  much  worse  sign  of  human  na 
ture  that  many  men  should  hear  with  delight,  and  speak 
with  exaggeration,  anything  to  the  prejudice  of  people 
whom  they  know  nothing  about.  The  man  you  know 
may  have  given  you  offence.  The  man  of  whom  you 
know  nothing  cannot  possibly  have  done  so  ;  and  if  you 
hate  him,  and  wish  to  do  him  harm,  it  can  only  be  be 
cause  you  are  prepared  to  hate  the  average  specimen  of 
your  race.  We  all  know  those  who,  if  they  met  a  fellow- 
creature  out  in  the  lonely  desert,  would  see  in  him  not  a 
friend  but  an  enemy,  and  would  prepare  to  shoot  him  or 
hamstring  him  unobserved.  For  the  people  I  mean  pre 
fer  to  deal  their  blow  unseen.  There  are  those  who,  as 
boys  at  school,  would  never  have  a  fair  fight  with  a  com 
panion,  but  would  secretly  give  him  a  malicious  poke 
when  unobserved.  And  such  men,  I  have  remarked, 
carry  out  the  system  when  they  have  reached  maturity. 
They  will  not  boldly  face  the  being  they  hate,  but  they 
secretly  disseminate  falsehoods  to  his  disadvantage. 

But  it  is  sad  to  think  that  the  hasty  judgments  men 
form  of  one  another  are  almost  invariably  unfavorable 
ones.  It  is  sad  to  think  that  people  come  to  have  such 
malignant  feeling  towards  other  people  who  are  quite 
unknown  to  them.  A  short  time  ago,  at  a  public  meet 
ing,  Mr.  Jones  was  proposed  as  a  suitable  person  to  be 
the  town  beadle.  Jones  did  not  want  the  beadleship, 
being  already  in  possession  of  a  preferable  situation  of 
the  same  character.  When  his  name  was  proposed,  an 
old  individual  rose  to  oppose  him.  That  was  all  natural. 
But  this  individual  was  not  content  to  oppose  Jones's 
claims  to  the  beadleship,  he  positively  gnashed  his  teeth 


248  GOSSIP. 

in  fury  at  Jones.  He  had  no  command  of  language, 
and  could  but  imperfectly  express  his  hatred ;  but  he 
foamed  at  the  mouth,  the  veins  of  his  head  swelled  up, 
and  he  trembled  in  every  limb  with  eager  wrath,  as  he 
declared  that  he  would  never  consent  to  Jones  being 
beadle ;  that  if  Jones  was  appointed  beadle  he  himself 
(his  name  was  Mr.  Curre)  would  forthwith  quit  the  town, 
and  never  again  enter  it.  Curre  had  never  exchanged 
a  word  with  Jones  in  all  his  life ;  yet  he  hated  Jones,  and 
the  mention  of  Jones's  name  thus  infuriated  him,  even 
as  a  scarlet  rag  a  bull.  Poor  Curre  was  not  a  bad- 
hearted  fellow  after  all,  and  at  a  subsequent  period 
Jones  made  his  acquaintance.  Now,  one  great  principle 
Jones  holds  by  is  this,  that  if  any  man  hate  you,  it  must 
be  in  some  measure  your  own  fault ;  you  must  in  some 
way  have  given  offence  to  the  man.  So  Jones,  who  is  a 
very  genial  and  straightforward  person,  asked  Curre  to 
tell  him  honestly  why  he  had  so  keenly  opposed  his  ap 
pointment  to  the  beadleship,  adding  that  he  feared  he 
had  given  Curre  offence  in  some  way  or  other,  though 
he  had  never  intended  it ;  and  Curre,  after  some  hesi 
tation  and  with  a  good  deal  of  shame,  replied,  "  Well, 
the  fact  is,  I  could  not  bear  to  see  you  riding  such  a  fine 
horse,  and  Mr.  Sneakyman  told  me  you  paid  a  hundred 
and  twenty  pounds  for  it."  —  "  My  friend  Curre,"  was  the 
reply,  "  I  gave  just  forty  for  that  horse,  and  how  could 
you  believe  anything  said  by  Sneakyman  ?  "  Curre  as 
sured  Jones  that  the  reason  why  he  had  disliked  him  was 
just  that  he  knew  so  little  of  him,  and  that  when  he 
came  to  know  him  his  dislike  immediately  passed  into  a 
real  warm  and  penitent  regard.  And  when  Curre  died 
soon  after,  he  left  Jones  ten  thousand  pounds.  Curre 


GOSSIP.  249 

had  no  relations,  so  it  was  all  right ;  and  Jones  had  nine 
teen  children,  so  it  was  all  right  for  him  too. 

Reader,  take  a  large  sheet  of  paper,  —  foolscap  paper. 

Take  a  pen.     Sit  down  at  a  table  where  there  is  ink. 

Write  out  a  list  of  all  the  persons  you  dislike,  adding 
a  brief  statement  of  the  reason  or  reasons  why  you  dis 
like  each  of  them. 

Having  written  accordingly,  ask  yourself  this  ques 
tion  :  Am  I  doing  well  to  be  angry  with  these  persons  ? 
Have  they  given  me  offence  to  justify  this  dislike  ? 

And  now  listen  to  this  prophecy.  You  will  be  obliged 
to  confess  that  they  have  not.  You  will  feel  ashamed 
of  your  dislike  for  them.  You  will  resolve  to  cease  dis 
liking  them. 

Believe  one  who  has  tried.  Here  on  this  table  is  a 
large  foolscap  page.  Three  names  did  I  write  down  of 
people  I  disliked ;  then  I  wrote  down  the  cause  why  I 
disliked  the  first,  and  it  looked,  being  written  down,  so 
despicably  small,  that  I  felt  heartily  ashamed.  And 
now,  you  large  page,  go  into  the  fire ;  and  with  you  these 
dislikes  shall  perish.  At  this  moment  I  don't  dislike  any 
human  being,  and  if  anybody  dislikes  me  I  hope  he  will 
cease  doing  so.  If  ever  I  gave  him  offence,  I  am  sorry 
for  it. 

Yet  I  cannot  quite  agree  with  Jones  in  thinking  that, 
in  every  case  where  dislike  is  felt,  it  is  at  least  in  part 
the  fault  of  the  disliked  person.  In  many  cases  it  is : 
not  in  all.  A  retired  oilman  of  large  wealth  bought  a 
tract  of  land,  and  went  to  reside  on  it.  He  found  that- 
his  parish  clergyman  drove  a  handsome  carriage,  and 
had  a  couple  of  men-servants.  The  old  oilman  was  in 
furiated.  The  clergyman's  wife  erected  a  conservatory  : 
11* 


250  GOSSIP 

the  oilman  had  an  epileptic  fit.  Now  all  this  was  en 
tirely  the  oilman's  own  fault.  A  retired  officer  went  to 
live  in  a  certain  rural  district.  He  dined  at  six  o'clock. 
Several  people  round,  who  dined  at  five,  took  -mortal 
offence.  O  for  the  abolition  of  white  slavery !  When 
will  human  beings  be  suffered  to  do  as  they  please  ? 

I  have  remarked,  too,  that  most  stupid  people  hate  all 
clever  people.  I  have  witnessed  a  very  weak  and  silly 
man  repeat,  with  a  fatuous  and  feeble  malignity,  like  a 
dog  without  teeth  trying  to  bite,  some  story  to  the 
prejudice  of  an  eminent  man  in  the  same  profession. 
And  even  worse :  you  may  find  such  a  man  repeat  a 
story  not  at  all  to  the  disadvantage  of  the  eminent  man, 
under  the  manifest  impression  that  it  is  to  his  disadvan 
tage.  I  have  rarely  heard  Mr.  Snarling  say  anything 
with  more  manifest  malignity,  than  when  he  said  that 
my  friend  Smith  had  bought  a  fire-proof  safe  in  which 
to  keep  his  sermons.  Well,  was  there  any  harm  in 
that  ?  "  Bedwell  said  he  would  take  nothing  under  the 
chancellorship,"  said  Mr.  Dunup.  Perhaps  Bedwell 
should  not  have  said  so ;  but  the  fact  proved  to  be  that 
he  got  the  chancellorship. 

Clergymen  of  little  piety  or  ability,  and  with  empty 
churches,  dislike  those  clergymen  whose  churches  are 
very  full.  You  may  discern  this  unworthy  feeling  ex 
hibited  in  a  hundred  pitiful,  spiteful  little  ways.  I  have 
remarked,  too,  that  the  emptier  a  man's  church  grows, 
the  higher  becomes  his  doctrine.  And  flagrant  practi 
cal  neglect  of  duty  is  in  some  cases  compensated  by  vio 
lent  orthodoxy,  the  orthodoxy  being  shown  mainly  by 
accusing  other  people  of  heterodoxy. 

Unworthy  people  hate  those  who  do  a  thing  better 


GOSSIP.  251 

than  themselves.  An  inefficient  rector  empties  his 
church.  He  gets  a  popular  curate  who  fills  it.  The 
parishioners  present  the  curate  with  a  piece  of  plate. 
Forthwith  the  rector  dismisses  the  curate.  Or  perhaps 
the  rector  dare  not  venture  on  that.  He  waits  till  the 
curate  gets  a  parish  of  his  own ;  and  then  he  diligently 
excludes  him  from  the  pulpit  whence  his  sermons  were 
so  attractive.  His  old  friends  shall  never  see  or  hear 
him  again,  if  the  rector  can  prevent  it.  And  further, 
the  rector  and  his  wife  disseminate  wretched  little  bits 
of  scandal  as  to  the  extravagant  sayings  and  doings  of 
the  curate,  all  exaggerated  and  mostly  invented. 

The  heroic  way  of  taking  gossip  is  that  in  which  the 
old  Earl  Marischals  took  it,  when  it  was  a  more  serious 
thing  than  now.  Above  the  door  of  each  of  their  cas 
tles,  there  were  written  on  the  stone  these  words :  — 

THEY  HAIF  SAYD  : 
QHAT  SAYD  THEY? 
LAT  THEM  SAY! 


CHAPTER    XV. 


ARCHBISHOP  WHATELY  ON  BACON.* 


HIS  is  in  every  way  a  remarkable  book.  We 
have  before  us  in  this  volume  the  most  gen 
erally  popular  work  of  the  greatest  and 
meanest  man  of  his  time,  with  a  Commen 
tary  of  Annotations  by  the  man  who,  of  all  living  authors, 
approaches  in  many  of  his  intellectual  characteristics 
nearest  to  Bacon  himself.  We  find  in  the  writings  of 
Archbishop  Whately  the  same  independence  of  thought 
which  distinguishes  the  writings  of  Bacon  ;  the  same 
profusion  of  illustration  by  happy  analogies  which  is 
characteristic  of  Bacon's  later  works ;  the  same  clear 
ness,  point,  and  precision  of  style.  We  do  not  wonder 
that  the  accomplished  prelate,  accustomed  (as  he  tells  us 
in  his  Preface)  to  write  down  from  time  to  time  the  ob 
servations  which  suggested  themselves  to  him  in  reading 
Bacon's  Essays,  should  have  found  them  grow  beneath 
his  hand  into  a  volume  ;  and  we  cannot  but  regard  it  as 
a  boon  conferred  upon  all  educated  men,  that  this  vol 
ume  has  been  given  to  the  world.  Nor  must  we  omit 
to  remark,  in  this  age  of  readers  for  mere  entertainment, 

*  Bacon's  Essays  :  with  Annotations  by  Richard  Whately,  D.  D., 
Archbishop  of  Dublin. 


ARCHBISHOP  WHATELY  ON  BACON.  253 

that  although  the  volume  be  a  large  one,  written  by 
an  archbishop,  and  consisting  of  comments  upon  the 
thoughts  of  a  great  philosopher,  the  book  is  invested 
with  such  an  attractive  interest,  that  it  cannot  fail  to 
prove  a  readable  and  entertaining  one,  even  to  minds 
unaccustomed  to  high-class  thought  and  incapable  of 
severe  thinking.  The  somewhat  severe  terseness  of  the 
Essays  is  relieved  by  the  lighter  and  more  popular  tone 
of  the  Annotations.  Archbishop  Whately's  mind  is  of 
that  nature  that  it  takes  up  each  of  a  vast  range  of 
subjects  with  equal  ease,  and  apparently  with  equal 
gusto  ;  grappling  with  a  great  difficulty  or  unravelling  a 
great  perplexity  with  no  more  appearance  of  effort  than 
when  lightly  touching  a  social  folly,  such  as  might  have 
invited  the  notice  of  the  author  of  The  Book  of  Snobs, 
or  when  playfully  blowing  to  the  winds  an  error  not 
worth  serious  refutation.  Hardly  ever  in  the  range  of 
literature  have  we  observed  the  workings  of  an  intellect 
in  which  nervous  strength  is  so  combined  with  delicate 
tact.  We  are  reminded  of  Mr.  Nasmyth's  steam-ham 
mer,  which  can  smash  TC  mass  of  steel  in  shivers,  or  by 
successive  taps  drive  a  nail  through  a  half-inch  plank. 

We  are  thankful  that  in  noticing  this  book,  we  are 
concerned  rather  with  the  annotator  than  with  the  es 
sayist  ;  for  not  without  much  pain  can  we  look  back  on 
Lord  Bacon's  history.  There  is  something  jarring  in 
the  mingled  feelings  of  admiration  and  disgust  with 
which  we  think  of  Bacon's  greatness  and  meanness ; 
his  intellectual  grasp,  his  keen  insight,  his  wit,  his  imagi 
nation  (sober  in  its  wildest  flights),  his  serene  temper, 
his  brilliant  conversation,  his  courtly  manners,  his  free 
dom  from  arrogance  and  pretence  ;  and  then,  on  the 


254  ARCHBISHOP  WHATELY  ON  BACON. 

other  side,  his  cold  heart  and  mean  spirit,  his  low  and 
unworthy  ambition,  his  despicable  selfishness,  his  fla 
grant  dishonesty,  his  crawling  servility,  his  perfidy  as  a 
friend,  his  sneakiness  as  a  patriot,  his  corruption  as  a 
judge.  As  to  his  intellectual  greatness  there  can  be  no 
question  ;  though  there  can  be  no  error  more  complete 
than  to  regard  him  as  the  inventor  or  discoverer  of  the 
Inductive  Philosophy.  He  did  not  invent  it ;  he  did 
not  skilfully  apply  it.  His  philosophy  differed  from 
that  which  preceded  it  less  in  method  than  in  aim  ;  and 
it  is  glory  enough  to  have  mainly  contributed  to  turn 
the  thoughts  and  the  efforts  of  thoughtful  and  energetic 
men  away  from  the  profitless  philosophy  of  the  schools 
to  the  practical  good  of  mankind.  In  the  commodis  hu- 
manis  inservire  we  have  the  end  and  the  spirit  of  the 
Baconian  philosophy. 

The  Essays  constitute  Bacon's  most  popular  work,  if 
not  his  greatest.  They  illustrate  in  thought  and  style 
what  was  said  of  him  by  Ben  Jonson,  that  "  No  man 
ever  spoke  more  neatly,  more  pressly,  more  weightily, 
nor  suffered  less  emptiness,  less  idleness,  in  what  he 
uttered."  Their  subjects  are  well  known.  We  have  in 
them  the  thoughts  of  Bacon  on  a  considerable  range  of 
matters,  briefly  expressed,  most  of  them  not  occupying 
more  than  a  page  or  two.  They  may  have  been  written, 
many  of  them,  at  a  short  sitting,  though  they  manifestly 
give  us  the  results  of  mature  and  protracted  thought. 
And  here  and  there  occur  those  pregnant,  suggestive 
sentences  which  Archbishop  Whately  has  taken  as  texts 
for  his  own  observations.  The  Archbishop  reminds  us 
in  his  preface,  by  way  of  guarding  himself  from  the  im 
putation  of  presumption  in  adding  to  what  Bacon  has 


ARCHBISHOP   WHATELY  ON  BACON.  255 

said  on  many  subjects,  that  the  word  "  essay,"  which 
has  now  come  to  signify  a  full  and  careful  treatise  on  a 
subject,  was  in  Bacon's  day  more  correctly  understood 
as  meaning  a  slight  sketch  to  be  filled  up  and  followed 
out ;  a  something  to  set  the  reader  a-thinking  ;  and  the 
Annotations,  which  form  by  a  great  deal  the  larger 
part  of  the  book,  contain  the  reflections  and  remarks 
which  have  been  suggested  to  the  Archbishop  in  his 
reading  of  the  Essays. 

The  Annotations  are  of  all  degrees,  from  a  sentence 
or  two  of  inference  or  illustration  to  a  pretty  full  dis 
course  on  some  topic  more  or  less  directly  suggested  by 
Bacon.  The  writer  frequently  presses  opinions  which 
he  has  elsewhere  maintained,  and  gives  many  extracts 
from  his  own  published  works.  We  also  find  several 
quotations  from  other  authors,  selected  (we  need  not 
say)  with  great  judgment ;  and  showing  us  incidentally 
how'  wide  is  the  Archbishop's  reading,  and  how  com 
pletely  he  keeps  up  with  whatever  is  valuable  in  even 
the  lighter  literature  of  the  day.  In  that  portion  of 
this  volume  which  is  properly  Dr.  Whately's  own,  we 
have  the  acute  observations  of  a  writer  who  knows  both 
books  and  men  ;  of  a  keen  observer ;  a  thinker  almost 
always  sound  amid  extraordinary  independence  and 
originality  ;  a  master  of  a  style  so  beautifully  lucid  alike 
in  thought  and  expression,  that  we  hardly  feel,  as  we 
follow  in  the  track,  how  difficult  it  would  be  to  tread 
that  path  without  the  direction  of  a  guide  so  able  and  so 
sympathetic. 

The  characteristics  of  Archbishop  Whately  are  very 
marked ;  and  his  negative  characteristics  not  less  so 
than  his  positive.  No  thoughtful  man  can  become 


256  ARCHBISHOP  WHATELT  ON  BACON. 

acquainted  with  his  writings,  without  being  struck  quite 
as  much  by  what  this  distinguished  prelate  is  not,  as  by 
what  he  is.  Indeed,  what  the  Archbishop  of  Dublin  is 
not,  is  perhaps  the  thing  which  at  first  impresses  us 
most  deeply.  We  discover  in  his  works  the  productions 
of  a  mind  which  can  apply  itself  to  the  most  diverse 
subjects,  and  give  forth  the  soundest  and  shrewdest  sense 
on  all,  expressed  in  the  most  felicitous  forms.  We  can 
not  but  remark  his  vast  information  ;  and  his  ripe  wis 
dom,  moral,  social,  and  political.  But,  after  all,  the 
thing  that  strikes  us  most  is,  how  thoroughly  different 
Archbishop  Whately  is  from  most  people's  idea  of  an 
archbishop.  We  associate  with  so  elevated  a  dignitary 
a  certain  ponderousness  of  mind ;  we  assume  that  his 
intellect  must  be  a  machine  which  by  its  weight  and 
power  is  rather  unfitted  for  light  work ;  and  we  are 
taken  by  surprise  when  we  find  a  prelate  so  dignified 
combining  with  the  graver  strength  of  understanding  a 
,'liveliness,  pith,  and  point,  a  versatility,  wit,  and  play 
fulness,  which,  without  taking  an  atom  from  that 
respect  which  is  due  to  bis  high  position,  yet  put  us  at 
our  ease  in  his  presence,  and  fit  him  for  the  attractive 
discussion  of  almost  every  topic  which  can  interest  the 
scholar  and  the  gentleman.  The  general  idea  of  an 
archbishop  is  of  something  eminently  respectable,  per 
haps  rather  dull  and  prosy ;  never  startling  us  in  any 
way  by  thought  or  style  ;  looking  at  all  the  world 
through  his  own  medium,  and  from  his  own  elevated 
point  of  view ;  and  above  all,  an  intensely  safe  man. 
The  very  reverse  of  all  this  is  Archbishop  Whately. 
Never,  indeed,  does  he  say  anything  inconsistent  with 
his  dignified  position;  but  his  works  show  him  to  us 


ARCHBISHOP  WHATELY  ON  BACON.  257 

(and  we  know  him  by  his  works  alone)  as  the  independ 
ent  thinker,  often  thinking  very  differently  from  the 
majority  of  men,  —  the  thorough  man  of  the  world,  in 
the  true  sense  of  that  phrase,  —  perfectly  versant  in  the 
ways  of  living  men,  from  the  tricks  of  the  petty  trades 
man  up  to  the  diplomacies  of  cabinets  and  the  social 
ethics  of  exclusive  circles,  —  at  home  in  the  literature 
of  the  hour  no  less  than  in  the  weightier  letters  of  phi 
losophy,  theology,  and  politics,  —  the  master  of  eloquent 
logic,  from  the  heavy  artillery  which  demolishes  a 
stronghold  of  error  or  scepticism,  to  the  light  touch  that 
unravels  a  paradox  or  puts  a  troublesome  simpleton  in 
his  right  place,  —  the  master  of  wit,  from  the  half-play 
ful  breath  which  shows  up  a  little  social  folly,  to  the 
scathing  sarcasm  which  turns  the  laugh  against  the  scof 
fer,  and  which  shows  the  would-be  wise  as  the  most 
arrant  of  fools. 

As  for  Archbishop  Whately's  positive  characteristics, 
we  believe  that  most  of  his  intelligent  readers  will  agree 
with  us  when  we  place  foremost  among  these  his  acute- 
ness  and  independence  of  thought.  The  latter  of  these 
qualities  he  possesses  almost  in  excess.  We  believe 
that  to  the  Archbishop  of  Dublin  the  fact  that  any  opin 
ion  is  very  generally  entertained,  so  far  from  being  a 
recommendation,  is  rather  a  reason  for  regarding  it  with 
suspicion.  It  is  amusing  how  regularly  we  find  it  occur 
ring  in  the  prefaces  to  his  works,  that  one  reason  for  the 
publication  of  each  is  his  belief  that  erroneous  views  are 
commonly  entertained  as  to  the  subject  of  it.  And 
when  we  consider  how  most  men  receive  their  opinions 
upon  all  subjects  ready-made,  we  cannot  appreciate  too 
highly  one  who,  in  the  emphatic  sense  of  the  phrase, 

Q 


258  ARCHBISHOP  WHATELY  ON  BACON. 

thinks  for  himself.  It  is  right  to  add  that  there  is  hardly 
an  instance  in  which  so  much  originality  of  thought  can 
be  found  in  conjunction  with  so  much  justice  and  so 
briety  of  thought.  In  Archbishop  Whately's  writings 
we  have  independence  without  the  least  trace  of  wrong- 
headedness.  His  views,  especially  in  his  Lectures  on  a 
Future  State,  on  Good  and  Evil  Angels,  and  on  the 
Characters  of  the  Apostles,  are  often  startling  at  the  first 
glance,  because  very  different  from  those  to  which  we 
have  grown  accustomed  ;  but  he  generally  succeeds  in 
convincing  us  that  his  opinion  is  the  sound  and  natural 
one ;  and  where  he  fails  to  carry  our  conviction  along 
with  him,  he  leaves  us  persuaded  of  his  good  faith,  and 
sensible  that  much  may  be  said  on  his  part. 

Another  striking  characteristic  of  Archbishop  Whately 
is,  his  extraordinary  power  of  illustrating  moral  truths 
and  principles  by  analogies  to  external  nature.  Not 
even  Abraham  Tucker  possessed  this  power  in  so  emi 
nent  a  degree  ;  and  the  Archbishop's  illustrations  are 
always  free  from  that  grossness  and  vulgarity  which 
often  deform  those  of  Tucker,  who  (as  he  himself  tells 
us)  did  not  scruple  to  take  a  figure  from  the  kitchen  or 
the  stable,  if  it  could  make  his  meaning  plainer.  We 
cannot  call  to  mind  any  English  author  who  employs 
imagery  in  such  a  profuse  degree,  yet  without  the  faintest 
suspicion  of  that  nerveless  and  aimless  accumulation  of 
figures  and  comparisons  which  constitutes  what  is  vul 
garly  termed  floweriness  of  style.  We  have  no  fine 
things  put  in  for  mere  fine-writing's  sake.  Dr.  Whate 
ly's  illustrations  are  not  only  invariably  apt  and  strik 
ing  ;  they  really  illustrate  his  point,  they  throw  light  upon 
•it,  and  make  it  plainer  than  it  was  before.  They  are 


ARCHBISHOP  WHATELY  ON  BACON.  259 

hardly  ever  long  drawn  out ;  consisting  very  frequently 
in  a  happy  analogy  suggested  in  one  clause  of  a  sen 
tence, —  the  writer  being  anxious  to  make  that  step  in 
his  reasoning  clear,  yet  too  much  bent  upon  the  ultimate 
conclusion  he  is  aiming  at  to  linger  upon  that  step  longer 
than  is  necessary  to  make  it  so. 

To  these  literary  qualifications  we  add,  that  Arch 
bishop  Whately's  information,  though  evidently  reaching 
over  a  vast  field,  is  yet  minutely  accurate  in  the  smallest 
details  ;  and,  without  the  least  tinge  of  pedantry,  the  fine 
scholarship  of  the  writer  often  shines  through  his  work. 
It  is  almost  superfluous  to  allude  to  the  invariable  clear 
ness,  point,  and  felicity  of  the  Archbishop's  English 
style,  which  often  warms  into  eloquence  of  the  highest 
class,  —  effective  and  telling,  without  one  grain  of  clap 
trap. 

We  should  give  an  imperfect  view  of  the  characteris 
tics  of  the  Archbishop  of  Dublin,  if  we  did  not  mention, 
as  a  marked  one,  his  intense  honesty  of  purpose,  his 
evident  desire  to  arrive  at  exact  truth,  and  his  care 
fulness  to  state  opinions  and  arguments  with  perfect 
fairness.  Nor  should  his  fearless  out-spokenness  be  for 
gotten.  He  does  not  hesitate  to  call  an  opponent's  argu 
ment  nonsense  when  he  has  proved  it  to  be  so.  "  Often 
very  silly,  and  not  seldom  very  mischievous,"  *  is  his 
description  of  the  speculations  o£  writers  of  the  Emerson 
school.  Our  readers  are  perhaps  acquainted  with  the 
Archbishop's  remarks  upon  some  of  the  German  writers 
of  the  present  day  :  — 

"  The  attention  their  views  have  attracted,  considering 
their  extreme  absurdity,  is  something  quite  wonderful.  But 

*  Preface,  p.  v. 


260  AKCHBISHOP   WHATELY  ON  BACON. 

there  are  many  persons  who  are  disposed  to  place  confidence 
in  any  one,  in  proportion,  not  to  his  sound  judgment,  but  to 
his  ingenuity  and  learning ;  qualifications  which  are  some 
times  found  in  men  (such  as  those  writers)  who  are  utterly 
deficient  in  common-sense  and  reasoning  powers,  and  knowl 
edge  of  human  nature,  and  who  consequently  fall  into  such 
gross  absurdities  as  would  be,  in  any  matter  unconnected 
with  religion,  regarded  as  unworthy  of  serious  attention."  * 

It  is  impossible  to  read  the  Annotations  without  feel 
ing  what  an  acute  observer  of  men  is  Archbishop  Whately. 
How  carefully,  in  his  passage  through  life,  has  his  quick 
eye  gathered  up  the  characteristics  of  those  persons  with 
whom  he  has  been  brought  in  contact,  —  their  preten 
sions,  foibles,  tricks,  and  errors  ;  and  how  well  he  turns  his 
recollections  to  account,  when  an  example  or  illustration 
is  needed !  We  likewise  find  many  indications  that  he 
has  been  keenly  alive,  not  more  to  the  ways  of  men  than 
to  the  little  phenomena  of  nature.  We  refer  our  read 
ers  particularly  to  a  passage  on  the  degrees  of  cold  which 
are  experienced  in  the  course  of  a  single  night  (p.  305)  ; 
and  we  wonder  how  many  persons,  even  of  those  who 
generally  live  in  the  country,  are  aware  of  the  following 
fact:  — 

"  Any  one  who  is  accustomed  to  go  out  before  daylight 
will  often,  in  the  winter,  find  the  roads  full  of  liquid  mud 
half  an  hour  before  dawi^  and  by  sunrise  as  hard  as  a  rock. 
Then  those  who  have  been  in  bed  will  often  observe  that  '  it 
was  a  hard  frost  last  night,'  when  in  truth  there  had  been  no 
frost  at  all  till  daybreak."  —  p.  305. 

And  the  final  feature  we  remark  in  Archbishop  Whate- 
ly's  character  is  one  which  must  afford  the  highest  satis- 

*  Lectures  on  the  Characters  of  Our  Lord's  Apostles,  p.  166. 


ARCHBISHOP  WHATELY  ON  BACON.  261 

faction  to  all  who  have,  in  their  own  experience,  found 
earnest  personal  religion  existing  most  markedly  in  con 
junction  with  great  weakness,  ignorance,  and  prejudice ; 
and  to  all  who  have  ever  mingled  in  the  society  of  able 
and  cultivated  men,  who  thought  that  contemptuously  to 
put  religion  aside  was  the  indication  of  mental  vigor  and 
enlightenment.  It  is  most  satisfactory  to  find  the  writ 
ings  of  one  of  the  strongest-minded  men  of  his  time  all 
pervaded  and  inspirited  by  a  religious  principle  and  feel 
ing,  earnest,  unaffected,  really  practical  and  influential, 
—  as  perfectly  free  from  weakness  as  from  self-assertion 
and  self-conceit. 

We  believe  that  from  this  volume  of  Annotations  we 
could  construct  a  tolerably  complete  scheme  of  Arch 
bishop  Whately's  views  on  politics,  morals,  social  ethics, 
and  the  general  conduct  of  life.  We  have  some  indica 
tion  of  his  peculiar  tastes  and  bent  from  observing  which 
among  Bacon's  Essays  he  passes  by  without  remark. 
He  has  little  to  say  concerning  "  Masques  and  Tri 
umphs."  We  should  judge  that  his  nature  has  little 
about  it  of  that  "  soft  side "  which  leads  to  take  de 
light  in  the  recurrence  of  periodical  festal  occasions, 
with  their  kindly  remembrances :  we  should  judge  that 
a  solitary  Christmas  would  be  much  less  of  a  trial  to 
him  than  it  would  be  to  us ;  although  the  instances  of 
Dickens  and  Jerrold  prove  that  the  warmest  feeling 
about  such  seasons  and  associations  is  quite  consistent 
with  even  extreme  opinions  on  the  side  of  progress. 
Then  the  Archbishop  passes  the  Essays  on  "  Building  " 
and  "Gardens"  without  a  word;  although  these  sub 
jects  would  have  set  many  men  off  into  a  rhapsody  of 
delighted  details  and  fancies.  We  judge  that  Dr. 


262  ARCHBISHOP  WHATELY  ON  BACON. 

Whately  has  not  a  very  keen  relish  for  external  nature 
for  its  own  sake  ;  his  chief  interest  in  it  appears  to  be  in 
the  tracing  of  analogies  between  the  material  and  moral 
worlds.  The  fact  that  Bacon's  ideas  both  on  Building 
and  Gardening  are  now  quite  out  of  date  would  be  only 
the  stronger  reason  to  many  men  for  launching  out  upon 
the  subject;  and  how  deeply  could  some  sympathize 
with  Bacon  in  his  ideal  picture  of  a  princely  palace,  — 
one  of  those  delightful  palaces  in  the  air  about  whose 
site  there  are  permitted  no  drawbacks  or  shortcomings 
on  the  part  of  Nature,  —  round  which  ancestral  woods 
grow  at  a  moment's  notice,  and  within  whose  view  noble 
rivers,  fed  by  no  springs,  can  flow  up-hill,  —  and  in 
whose  architecture  expense  and  time  need  never  be 
thought  of.  But  not  many  men  are  likely  ever  to  live 
in  palaces ;  not  many  more,  perhaps,  would  care  to  pic 
ture  out  such  a  life  for  themselves;  and  we  prefer  to 
Bacon's  palace,  the  delightful  description  in  Mr.  Lou- 
don's  Encyclopaedia  of  Architecture,  of  what  he  calls  the 
Beau  Ideal  English  Villa. 

We  have  long  regarded  the  Archbishop  of  Dublin  as, 
in  several  respects,  almost  the  foremost  man  of  this  day. 
It  says  little  for  the  age's  intelligence,  that  while  Dr. 
Cumming's  paltry  claptraps  sell  by  scores  of  thousands 
of  copies,  Archbishop  Whately  commands  an  audience, 
fit  indeed,  but  comparatively  few ;  for  his  writings  pos 
sess  a  very  high  degree  of  that  most  indispensable, 
though  not  highest,  of  all  qualities,  interest.  He  is 
never  heavy  nor  tiresome.  Very  dull  people  may  under 
stand,  though  they  may  not  appreciate  him.  But  we 
are  persuaded  that  his  archbishopric  lessens  the  number 
of  his  readers.  Readers  for  mere  amusement  are  afraid 
to  begin  what  has  been  written  by  so  great  a  man. 


ARCHBISHOP   WHATELY   ON  BACON.  263 

We  need  hardly  say  that  it  is  wholly  impossible  within 
the  limits  of  a  short  article  to  give  any  just  idea,  either 
of  the  variety  of  topics  which  the  Archbishop  has  dis 
cussed,  or  of  the  manner  in  which  he  has  discussed  them. 
Bacon  himself  described  his  Essays  as  "  handling  those 
things  wherein  both  men's  lives  and  persons  are  most 
conversant "  ;  and  Archbishop  Whately's  Annotations, 
ranging  over  the  same  wide  field,  can  be  described,  as  to 
their  scope,  in  no  more  definite  terms.  But  the  same 
necessary  want  of  unity  which  makes  the  book  so  hard 
to  speak  of  as  a  whole  renders  it  the  easier  to  consider 
in  its  separate  parts.  It  consists  of  precious  detached 
pieces,  each  of  which  loses  nothing  by  being  individually 
regarded.  But  before  glancing  at  some  of  the  topics 
which  the  Archbishop  has  treated,  we  wish  to  give  our 
readers  a  few  specimens  of  those  admirable  illustrations 
of  moral  truths  by  physical  analogies  which  form  so 
striking  a  feature  of  his  writings :  — 

"  There  are  two  kinds  of  orators,  the  distinction  between 
whom  might  be  thus  illustrated.  When  the  moon  shines 
brightly  we  are  apt  to  say,  '  How  beautiful  is  this  moonlight ! ' 
but  in  the  daytime,  '  Plow  beautiful  are  the  trees,  the  fields, 
the  mountains  ! '  —  and,  in  short,  all  the  objects  that  are  illu 
minated  ;  we  never  speak  of  the  sun  that  makes  them  so. 
Just  in  the  same  way,  the  really  greatest  orator  shines  like 
:  the  sun,  making  you  think  much  of  the  things  he  is  speaking 
of;  the  second-best  shines  like  the  moon,  making  you  think 
much  of  him  and  his  eloquence."" — (p.  327,  Annotation  on 
Essay  "  Of  Discourse.") 

"  In  most  subjects,  the  utmost  knowledge  that  any  man  can 
attain  to,  is  but  '  a  little  learning '  in  comparison  of  what  he 
remains  ignorant  of.  The  view  resembles  that  of  an  Ameri 
can  forest,  in  which  the  more  trees  a  man  cuts  down,  the 


264  ARCHBISHOP  WHATELY  ON  BACON. 

greater  is  the  expanse  of  wood  he  sees  around  him."  —  (p. 
446,  Annotation  on  Essay  "  Of  Studies.") 

In  an  annotation  on  the  Essay  "Of  Negotiating," 
Archbishop  Whately  mentions,  as  a  caution  to  be  ob 
served,  that  in  combating,  whether  as  a  speaker  or  a 
writer,  deep-rooted  prejudices,  and  maintaining  unpopu 
lar  truths,  the  point  to  be  aimed  at  should  be,  to  adduce 
what  is  sufficient,  and  not  much  more  than  is  sufficient, 
to  prove  your  conclusion.  You  affront  men's  self-esteem, 
and  awaken  their  distrust,  by  proving  the  extreme  ab 
surdity  of  thinking  differently  from  yourself ;  and  — 

"  in  this  way  the  very  clearness  and  force  of  the  demonstration 
will,  with  some  minds,  have  an  opposite  tendency  to  the  one 
desired.  Laborers  who  are  employed  in  driving  wedges  into 
a  block  of  wood  are  careful  to  use  blows  of  no  greater  force 
than  is  just  sufficient.  If  they  strike  too  hard,  the  elasticity 
of  the  wood  will  throw  out  the  wedge"—  (p.  432.) 

On  the  Essay  "Of  Praise,"  Archbishop  Whately 
remarks,  with  admirable  truth,  that  it  is  needless  to 
insist,  as  many  do,  upon  the  propriety  of  not  being 
wholly  indifferent  to  the  opinions  formed  of  us ;  as  that 
tendency  of  our  nature  stands  more  in  need  of  keeping 
under  than  of  encouraging  or  vindicating :  — 

"  It  must  be  treated  like  the  grass  on  a  lawn  which  you  wish 
to  keep  in  good  order :  you  neither  attempt  nor  wish  to  de 
stroy  the  grass ;  but  you  mow  it  down  from  time  to  time,  as 
close  as  you  possibly  can,  well  trusting  that  there  will  be 
quite  enough  left,  and  that  it  will  be  sure  to  grow  again."  — 
(p.  491.) 

On  the  Essay  "  Of  Youth  and  Age,"  we  have  many 
excellent  remarks  upon  the  fact  to  which  the  experience 


ARCHBISHOP   WHATELY  ON  BACON.  265 

of  most  men  bears  testimony,  that  great  precocity  of  un 
derstanding  is  rarely  followed  by  superior  intellect  in 
after-life  ;  and  more  especially  that  there  is  nothing  less 
promising  than,  in  early  youth,  "  a  certain  full-formed, 
settled,  and,  as  it  may  be  called,  adult  character : "  — 

"  A  lad  who  has,  to  a  degree  that  excites  wonder  and  ad 
miration,  the  character  and  demeanor  of  an  intelligent  man 
of  mature  years,  will  probably  be  that,  and  nothing  more,  all 
his  life,  and  will  cease  accordingly  to  be  anything  remarka 
ble,  because  it  was  the  precocity  alone  that  ever  made  him 
so.  It  is  remarked  by  greyhound-fanciers  that  a  well-formed, 
compact-shaped  puppy  never  makes  a  fleet  dog.  They  see 
more  promise  in  the  loose-jointed,  awkward,  clumsy  ones. 
And  even  so,  there  is  a  kind  of  crudity  and  unsettledness  in 
the  minds  of  those  young  persons  who  turn  out  ultimately 
the  most  eminent."  —  (p.  405.) 

How  admirably  true!  "We  heartily  wish  that  many 
injudicious  parents  would  lay  this  to  heart.  Who  is 
there  who  does  not  remember,  how,  at  school  and  col 
lege,  some  cautious,  slow-speaking,  never-committing- 
himself  lac^  whose  seeming  precocity  of  judgment  was 
mainly  the  result  of  stolidity  of  understanding  and  slow 
ness  of  circulation,  was  evermore  thrust  as  a  grand 
exemplar  before  the  view  of  those  whose  quicker  intel 
lect  and  warmer  heart  often  got  them  into  scrapes  from 
which  he  kept  clear,  but  promised  what  he  could  never 
attain,  till  the  very  name  of  prudence,  discretion,  reserve, 
became  hateful  and  disgusting!  And  how  regularly 
that  pattern  boy  or  lad  has  proved  in  after-life  the  dul 
lard  and  booby  which  his  young  companions,  in  their 
more  natural  frank-heartedness,  instinctively  knew  and 
felt  he  was  even  then ! 

12 


266  ARCHBISHOP   WHATELY  ON  BACON. 

On  the  Essay  "  Of  Friendship "  the  Archbishop  ob 
serves  :  — 

"  It  may  be  worth  noticing  as  a  curious  circumstance,  when 
persons  past  forty  before  they  were  at  all  acquainted  form 
together  a  very  close  intimacy  of  friendship.  For  grafts  of 
old  wood  to  take,  there  must  be  a  wonderful  congeniality  be 
tween  the  trees."—  (p.  276.) 

On  Bacon's  remark,  that  "a  man  that  is  young  in 
years  may  be  old  in  hours,  if  he  have  lost  no  time,"  the 
Archbishop  says,  — 

"  And  this  may  be,  not  only  from  his  having  had  better 
opportunities,  but  also  from  his  understanding  better  how  to 
learn  by  experience.  Several  different  men,  who  have  all 
had  equal,  or  even  the  very  same  experience,  —  that  is,  have 
been  witnesses  or  agents  in  the  same  transactions,  —  will 
often  be  found  to  resemble  so  many  different  men  looking  at 
the  same  book.  One,  perhaps,  though  he  distinctly  sees 
black  marks  on  white  paper,  has  never  learned  his  letters ; 
another  can  read,  but  is  a  stranger  to  the  language  in  which 
the  book  is  written  ;  another  has  an  acquaintance  with  the 
language,  but  understands  it  imperfectly ;  another  is  famil 
iar  with  the  language,  but  is  a  stranger  to  the  subject  of  the 
book,  and  wants  power  or  previous  instruction  to  enable  him 
fully  to  take  in  the  author's  drift;  while  another  again  per 
fectly  comprehends  the  whole." —  (p.  400.) 

In  an  annotation  on  the  Essay  "  Of  Dispatch,"  we  find 
some  thoughts  on  the  advantage  of  knowing  when  to  act 
with  promptitude  and  when  with  deliberation,  and  of 
being  able  suitably  to  meet  either  case.  Then  the 
Archbishop  goes  on  as  follows  :  — 

"If  you  cannot  find  a  counseller  who  combines  these  two 
kinds  of  qualification  (which  is  a  thing  not  to  be  calculated 


ARCHBISHOP   WHATELY   ON   BACON.  267 

on),  you  should  seek  for  some  of  each  sort,  —  one  to  devise  and 
mature  measures  that  will  admit  of  delay ;  and  another  to 
make  prompt  guesses,  and  suggest  sudden  expedients.  A 
bow,  such  as  is  approved  of  by  our  modern  toxophilites,  must 
be  backed  —  that  is,  made  of  two  slips  of  wood  glued  together : 
one  a  very  elastic,  but  somewhat  brittle  wood ;  the  other  much 
less  elastic,  but  very  tough.  The  one  gives  the  requisite 
spring,  the  other  keeps  it  from  breaking.  If  you  have  two 
such  counsellors  as  are  here  spoken  of,  you  are  provided  with 
a  backed  bow."  —  (p.  250.) 

Describing  the  two  opposite  sorts  of  men  who  equally 
precipitate  a  country  into  anarchy,  the  one  sort  by  obsti 
nately  resisting  all  innovations,  and  the  other  by  reck 
lessly  hurrying  into  violent  changes  without  reason,  the 
Archbishop  says :  — 

"  The  two  kinds  of  absurdity  here  adverted  to  may  be 
compared  respectively  to  the  acts  of  two  kinds  of  irrational 
animals,  a  moth  and  a  horse.  The  moth  rushes  into  a  flame, 
and  is  burned ;  and  the  horse  obstinately  stands  still  in  a  sta 
ble  that  is  on  fire,  and  is  burned  likewise.  One  may  often 
meet  with  persons  of  opposite  dispositions,  though  equally 
unwise,  who  are  accordingly  prone  respectively  to  these  op 
posite  errors ;  the  one  partaking  more  of  the  character  of  the 
moth,  and  the  other  of  the  horse."  —  (p.  244.) 

Mr.  Macaulay  tells  us,  and  experience  confirms  his 
statement,  that  it  is  not  easy  to  make  a  simile  go  on  all- 
fours,  and  incomparably  more  difficult  to  attain  strict 
accuracy  when  an  analogy  is  drawn  out  to  any  length. 
But  Archbishop  Whately  overcomes  this  difficulty. 
There  is  no  hitch  whatever  in  the  following  comparison, 
though  it  runs  to  very  minute  and  exact  details :  — 

"  The  effect  produced  by  any  writing  or  speech  of  an  argu- 


268  ARCHBISHOP   WHATELY   ON   BACON. 

mentative  character,  on  any  subject  on  which  diversity  of 
opinion  prevails,  may  be  compared  —  supposing  the  argu 
ment  to  be  of  any  weight  —  to  the  effects  of  a  fire-engine  on 
a  conflagration.  That  portion  of  the  water  which  falls  on 
solid  stone  walls  is  poured  out  where  it  is  not  needed. 
That,  again,  which  falls  on  blazing  beams  and  rafters,  is  cast 
off  in  volumes  of  hissing  steam,  and  will  seldom  avail  to 
quench  the  fire.  But  that  which  is  poured  on  woodwork 
that  is  just  beginning  to  kindle,  may  stop  the  burning;  and 
that  which  wets  the  rafters  not  yet  ignited,  but  in  danger, 
may  save  them  from  catching  fire.  Even  so,  those  who 
already  concur  with  the  writer  as  to  some  point,  will  feel 
gratified  with,  and  perhaps  bestow  high  commendation  on,  an 
able  defence  of  the  opinions  they  already  hold ;  and  those, 
again,  who  have  fully  made  up  their  minds  on  the  opposite 
side,  are  more  likely  to  be  displeased  than  to  be  convinced. 
But  both  of  these  parties  are  left  nearly  in  the  same  mind  as 
before.  Those,  however,  who  are  in  a  hesitating  and  doubt 
ful  state,  may  very  likely  be  decided  by  forcible  arguments  ; 
and  those  who  have  not  hitherto  considered  the  subject  may 
be  induced  to  adopt  opinions  which  they  find  supported  by 
the  strongest  reasons.  But  the  readiest  and  warmest  appro 
bation  a  writer  meets  with  will  usually  be  from  those  whom 
he  has  not  convinced,  because  they  were  convinced  already. 
And  the  effect  the  most  important  and  the  most  difficult  to 
be  produced  he  will  usually,  when  he  does  produce  it,  hear 
the  least  of."  —  (p.  432.) 

We  do  not  know  where  to  find  a  comparison  more 
correct  or  more  beautiful  than  that  with  which  the 
highly-gifted  prelate  concludes  his  remarks  on  those 
writers  who  inculcate  morality,  with  an  exclusion  of  all 
reference  to  religious  principle.  He  gives  us  to  under 
stand  that  the  resolute  manner  in  which  Miss  Edge- 
worth,  in  her  works,  ignored  Christianity,  was  the  result 


AKCHBISHOP  WHATELY   ON  BACON.  2C9 

of  an  entire  disbelief  in  its  doctrines.  But  even  this  sad 
fact  leaves  her  open  to  the  charge  of  having  falsified 
poetical  truth;  inasmuch  as  it  cannot  be  denied  that 
Christianity,  true  or  false,  does  exist,  and  does  exercise 
a  material  influence  on  the  feelings  and  conduct  of  some 
of  the  believers  in  it.  And  to  represent  all  sorts  of  peo 
ple  as  involved  in  all  sorts  of  circumstances,  while  yet 
none  ever  makes  the  least  reference  to  a  religious  mo 
tive,  is  artistically  unnatural.  The  graver  objection 
still  remains,  that  the  moral  excellences  described  in 
non-religious  fictions  as  existing,  cannot  exist,  cannot  be 
realized,  except  by  resorting  to  principles  which,  in 
those  fictions,  are  unnoticed.  And  the  young  reader 
should  therefore  be  reminded  — 

"  that  all  these  '  things  that  are  lovely  and  of  good  report,' 
•which  have  been  placed  before  him,  are  the  genuine  fruits  of 
the  Holy  Land,  though  the  spies  who  have  brought  them 
bring  also  an  evil  report  of  that  land,  and  would  persuade  us 
to  remain  wandering  in  the  wilderness."  —  (p.  468.) 

In  pointing  out  the  unfairness  to  a  new  colony  of 
making  it  the  receptacle  of  the  blackguards  and  scape 
graces  of  the  old  country,  by  the  system  of  penal  trans 
portation,  the  Archbishop  happily  illustrates  the  way  in 
which  people  of  not  very  logical  minds  are  brought  to 
associate  things  which  are  not  merely  unconnected,  but 
inconsistent :  — 

"In  other  subjects,  as  well  as  in  this,  I  have  observed  that 
two  distinct  objects  may,  by  being  dexterously  presented 
again  and  again  in  quick  succession,  to  the  mind  of  a  cursory 
reader,  be  so  associated  together  in  his  thoughts  as  to  be  con 
ceived  capable,  when  in  fact  they  are  not,  of  being  actually 
combined  in  practice.  The  fallacious  belief  thus  induced 


270  ARCHBISHOP  WHATELY   ON  BACON. 

bears  a  striking  resemblance  to  the  optical  illusion  effected 
by  that  ingenious  and  philosophical  toy  called  the  '  thauma- 
trope';  in  which  two  objects  painted  on  opposite  sides  of  a 
card  —  for  instance,  a  man  and  a  horse,  a  bird  and  a  cage 
—  are,  by  a  quick  rotatory  motion,  made  so  to  impress  the 
eye  in  combination,  as  to  form  one  picture,  of  the  man  on 
the  horse's  back,  —  the  bird  in  the  cage,  &c.  As  soon  as  the 
card  is  allowed  to  remain  at  rest,  the  figures,  of  course,  ap 
pear  as  they  really  are,  separate  and  on  opposite  sides.  A 
mental  illusion  closely  analogous  to  this  is  produced,  when, 
by  a  rapid  and  repeated  transition  from  one  subject  to  an 
other  alternately,  the  mind  is  deluded  into  an  idea  of  the 
actual  combination  of  things  that  are  really  incompatible. 
The  chief  part  of  the  defence  which  various  writers  have 
advanced  in  favor  of  the  system  of  penal  colonies  consists, 
in  truth,  of  a  sort  of  intellectual  thaumatrope.  The  pros 
perity  of  the  colony,  and  the  repression  of  crime,  are,  by  a 
sort  of  rapid  whirl,  presented  to  the  mind  as  combined  in 
one  picture.  A  very  moderate  degree  of  calm  and  fixed 
attention  soon  shows  that  the  two  objects  are  painted  on  op 
posite  sides  of  the  card." —  (p.  334.) 

On  the  risk  run  by  superstitious  persons  of  falling 
into  grave  error :  — 

"  Minds  strongly  predisposed  to  superstition  may  be  com 
pared  to  heavy  bodies  just  balanced  on  the  verge  of  a  preci 
pice.  The  slightest  touch  will  send  them  over ;  and  then 
the  greatest  exertion  that  can  be  made  may  be  insufficient 
to  arrest  their  fall." — (p.  155.) 

Illustration  is  sometimes  the  most  cogent  of  argu 
ment.  A  volume  of  reasoning  against  ultra-conserva 
tism  would  not  equal,  for  general  impression,  the  follow 
ing  plain  statement  of  the  case  :  — 

"Is  there  not,  then,  some  reason  for  the  ridicule  which 


ARCHBISHOP  WHATELY  ON  BACON.  271 

Bacon  speaks  of,  as  attaching  to  those  '  who  too  much  rever 
ence  old  times  ?  '  To  say  that  no  changes  shall  take  place 
is  to  talk  idly.  We  might  as  well  pretend  to  control  the 
motions  of  the  earth.  To  resolve  that  none  shall  take  place 
except  what  are  undesigned  and  accidental,  is  to  resolve  that 
though  a  clock  may  gain  or  lose  indefinitely,  at  least  we  will 
take  care  that  it  shall  never  be  regulated.  '  If  time '  (to  use 
Bacon's  warning  words)  '  alters  things  to  the  worse,  and  wis 
dom  and  counsel  shall  not  alter  them  to  the  better,  what 
shall  be  the  end?'"— (pp.  236,  237.) 

We  shall  throw  together,  without  remark,  some  fur 
ther  examples  of  Archbishop  Whately's  power  of  illus 
trating  the  moral  by  the  physical.  So  marked  a  feature 
in  his  intellectual  portraiture  deserves,  we  think,  ex 
tended  notice.  But  it  is  only  by  studying  the  Annota 
tions  for  themselves,  that  our  readers  can  form  any  just 
idea  of  the  affluence  and  exuberance  of  happy  imagery 
with  which  they  sparkle  all  over:  — 

"  To  these  small  wares,  enumerated  by  Bacon,  might  be 
added  a  very  hackneyed  trick,  which  yet  is  wonderfully  suc 
cessful,  —  to  affect  a  delicacy  about  mentioning  particulars, 
and  hint  at  what  you  could  bring  forward,  only  you  do  not 
wish  to  give  offence.  '  We  could  give  many  cases  to  prove 
that  such  and  such  a  medical  system  is  all  a  delusion,  and  a 
piece  of  quackery ;  but  we  abstain,  through  tenderness  for 
individuals,  from  bringing  names  before  the  public.'  '  I  have 
observed  many  things  —  which,  however,  I  will  not  particu 
larize  —  which  convince  me  that  Mr.  Such-a-one  is  unfit  for 
his  office  ;  and  others  have  made  the  same  remark ;  but  I  do 
not  like  to  bring  them  forward,'  &c.,  &c. 

"  Thus  an  unarmed  man  keeps  the  unthinking  in  awe,  by 
assuring  them  that  he  has  a  pair  of  loaded  pistols  in  his 
pocket,  though  he  is  loth  to  produce  them." — (p.  210.) 


272  ARCHBISHOP  WHATELY  ON  BACON. 

"  A  man  who  plainly  perceives  that,  as  Bacon  observes, 
there  are  some  cases  which  call  for  promptitude,  and  others 
which  require  delay,  and  who  has  also  sagacity  enough  to 
perceive  which  is  which,  will  often  be  mortified  at  perceiving 
that  he  has  come  too  late  for  some  things,  and  too  soon  for 
others ;  that  he  is  like  a  skilful  engineer,  who  perceives 
how  he  could,  fifty  years  earlier,  have  effectually  preserved 
an  important  harbor  which  is  now  irrecoverably  silted  up, 
and  how  he  could,  fifty  years  hence,  though  not  at  present, 
reclaim  from  the  sea  thousands  of  acres  of  fertile  land  at  the 
delta  of  some  river."  —  (p.  203.) 

"  As  in  contemplating  an  ebbing  tide,  we  are  sometimes  in 
doubt,  on  a  short  inspection,  whether  the  sea  is  really  reced 
ing,  because,  from  time  to  time,  a  wave  will  dash  farther  up 
the  shore  than  those  which  have  preceded  it,  but,  if  we  con 
tinue  our  observation  long  enough,  we  see  plainly  that  the 
boundary  of  the  land  is  on  the  whole  advancing ;  so  here,  by 
extending  our  view  over  many  countries  and  through  several 
ages,  we  may  distinctly  perceive  the  tendencies  which  would 
have  escaped  a  more  confined  research."  —  (p.  300.) 

"  An  ancient  Greek  colony  was  like  what  gardeners  call  a 
layer;  a  portion  of  the  parent  tree,  with  stem,  tAvigs,  and 
leaves  imbedded  in  fresh  soil  till  it  had  taken  root,  and  then 
severed.  A  modern  colony  is  like  handfuls  of  twigs  and 
leaves  pulled  off  at  random,  and  thrown  into  the  earth  to 
take  their  chance." — (p.  341.) 

" '  There  be  that  can  pack  the  cards,  and  yet  cannot  play 
well: 

"  Those  whom  Bacon  here  so  well  describes  are  men  of  a 
clear  and  quick  sight,  but  short-sighted.  They  are  ingenious 
in  particulars,  but  cannot  take  a  comprehensive  view  of  a 
whole.  Such  a  man  may  make  a  good  captain,  but  a  bad 
general.  He  may  be  clever  at  surprising  a  picket,  but 
would  fail  in  the  management  of  a  great  army  and  the  con 
duct  of  a  campaign.  He  is  like  a  chess-player  who  takes 
several  pawns,  but  is  checkmated."  —  (p.  215.) 


ARCHBISHOP  WHATELY  ON  BACON.  273 

"  The  truth  is,  that  in  all  the  serious  and  important  affairs 
of  life  men  are  attached  to  what  they  have  been  used  to ;  in 
matters  of  ornament  they  covet  novelty ;  in  all  systems  and 
institutions,  —  in  all  the  ordinary  business  of  life,  —  in  all 
fundamentals,  —  they  cling  to  what  is  the  established  course  ; 
in  matters  of  detail,  —  in  what  lies,  as  it  were,  on  the  surface, 
—  they  seek  variety.  Man  may,  in  reference  to  this  point, 
be  compared  to  a  tree  whose  stem  and  main  branches  stand 
year  after  year,  but  whose  leaves  and  flowers  are  fresh  every 
season."  —  (p.  228.) 

"  In  no  point  is  the  record  of  past  times  more  instructive 
to  those  capable  of  learning  from  other  experience  than  their 
own,  than  in  what  relates  to  the  history  of  reactions. 

"  It  has  been  often  remarked  by  geographers  that  a  river 
flowing  through  a  level  country  of  soft  alluvial  soil  never 
keeps  a  straight  course,  but  winds  regularly  to  and  fro,  in  the 
form  of  the  letter  S  many  times  repeated.  And  a  geogra 
pher,  on  looking  at  the  course  of  any  stream  as  marked  on  a 
map,  can  at  once  tell  whether  it  flows  along  a  plain  (like  the 
river  Meander,  which  has  given  its  name  to  such  windings), 
or  through  a  rocky  and  hilly  country.  It  is  found,  indeed, 
that  if  a  straight  channel  be  cut  for  any  stream  in  a  plain 
consisting  of  tolerably  soft  soil,  it  never  will  long  continue 
straight,  unless  artificially  kept  so,  but  becomes  crooked,  and 
increases  its  windings  more  and  more  every  year.  The 
cause  is,  that  any  little  wearing  away  of  the  bank  in  the  soft 
est  part  of  the  soil,  on  one  side,  occasions  a  set  of  the  stream 
against  this  hollow,  which  increases  it,  and  at  the  same  time 
drives  the  water  aslant  against  the  opposite  bank  a  little 
lower  down.  This  wears  away  that  bank  also ;  and  thus  the 
stream  is  again  driven  against  a  part  of  the  first  bank,  still 
lower ;  and  so  on,  till  by  the  wearing  away  of  the  banks  at 
these  points  on  each  side,  and  the  deposit  of  mud  (gradually 
becoming  dry  land)  in  the  comparatively  still  water  between 
them,  the  course  of  the  stream  becomes  sinuous,  and  its 

windings  increase  more  and  more. 

12*  R 


274  ARCHBISHOP   WHATELY   ON  BACON. 

"  And  even  thus,  in  human  affairs,  we  find  alternate 
movements,  in  nearly  opposite  directions,  taking  place  from 
time  to  time,  and  generally  bearing  some  proportion  to  each 
other  in  respect  of  the  violence  of  each ;  even  as  the  highest 
flood-tide  is  succeeded  by  the  lowest  ebb."  —  (p.  175.) 

Very  beautifully,  in  the  following  paragraph,  does  the 
Archbishop  illustrate  the  law  that  whatever  is  to  last 
long,  must  grow  slowly  :  — 

"  We  hear  of  volcanic  islands  thrown  up  in  a  few  days  to 
a  formidable  size,  and  in  a  few  weeks  or  months  sinking 
down  again  or  washed  away ;  while  other  islands,  which  are 
the  summits  of  banks  covered  with  weed  and  drift-sand,  con 
tinue  slowly  increasing  year  after  year,  century  after  cen 
tury.  The  man  that  is  in  a  hurry  to  see  the  full  effect  of 
his  own  tillage  should  cultivate  annuals,  not  forest-trees. 
The  clear-headed  lover  of  truth  is  content  to  wait  for  the 
result  of  his.  If  he  is  wrong  in  the  doctrines  he  maintains, 
or  the  measures  he  proposes,  at  least  it  is  not  for  the  sake  of 
immediate  popularity.  If  he  is  right,  it  will  be  found  out  in 
time,  though  perhaps  not  in  Ms  time.  The  preparers  of  the 
mummies  were  (Herodotus  says)  driven  out  of  the  house  by 
the  family  who  had  engaged  their  services,  with  execrations 
and  stones ;  but  their  work  remains  sound  after  three  thou 
sand  years." —  (p.  503.) 

Although  these  extracts  have  been  given  mainly  to 
exemplify  Archbishop  Whately's  mode  of  enforcing 
and  illustrating  his  views,  they  may  have  served  like 
wise  to  give  our  readers  some  notion  of  the  variety  of 
topics  treated  in  this  volume,  and  of  the  Archbishop's 
opinions  upon  some  of  these.  We  hardly  know  how  to 
attempt  a  description  of  the  matter  of  the  work  as  dis 
tinguished  from  its  manner.  There  are  scores  of  para 
graphs  among  the  Annotations  which  might  each  supply 


ARCHBISHOP   WHATELY  ON  BACON.  275 

material  for  extended  review ;  and  we  had  marked 
many  interesting  passages  with  the  intention  of  discuss 
ing  at  some  length  the  views  contained  in  them.  But, 
even  after  weeding  out  of  our  list  the  topics  which  ap 
peared  of  minor  interest  (the  process  was  that  of  thin 
ning  rather  than  of  weeding),  so  many  remain,  that  we 
can  do  no  more  than  glance  at  two  or  three. 

In  the  second  edition  of  the  work  just  published,  we 
find  no  material  differences  when  compared  with  the 
first.  Archbishop  Whately's  opinions  have  been  too 
well  considered  to  admit  of  change  within  a  few  months' 
space.  Bat  the  minute  reader  will  find  here  and  there 
many  little  additions,  which  afford  pleasant  proof  that 
the  author  is  still  thinking  upon  the  subjects  treated  ; 
and  which  promise  that,  rich  as  this  volume  already  is 
in  wisdom  and  eloquence,  it  may  yet  be  further  enriched 
by  the  further  observation  and  reflection  of  its  writer.  In 
the  former  edition  the  Essay  "  On  Faction  "  was  followed 
by  no  remarks  ;  in  the  present  edition  it  is  followed  by 
several  annotations,  —  some  of  them  suggested,  we  may 
believe,  by  recent  occurrences  in  America.  The  follow 
ing  passage,  of  special  interest  at  the  present  time, 
points  out  forcibly  the  advantage  of  having  in  a  state 
aliquid  impercussum,  —  a  central  rallying-point  detached 
from  all  party,  and  to  which  all  parties  may  profess 
attachment :  — 

"  Bacon's  remark,  that  a  prince  ought  not  to  make  it  his 
policy  to  '  govern  according  to  respect  to  factions,'  suggests  a 
strong  ground  of  preference  of  hereditary  to  elective  sove 
reignty.  For  when  a  chief —  whether  called  king,  emperor, 
president,  or  by  whatever  name  —  is  elected  (whether  for  life, 
or  for  a  term  of  years),  he  can  hardly  avoid  being  the  head 


276  ARCHBISHOP   WHATELY  ON  BACON. 

of  a  party.  He  who  is  elected  will  be  likely  to  feel  aversion 
towards  those  who  have  voted  against  him ;  who  may  be, 
perhaps,  nearly  half  of  his  subjects.  And  they  again  will  be 
likely  to  regard  him  as  an  enemy,  instead  of  feeling  loyalty  to 
him  as  their  prince. 

"  And  those  again  who  have  voted  for  him,  will  consider 
him  as  being  under  an  obligation  to  them,  and  expect  him  to 
show  to  them  more  favor  than  to  the  rest  of  his  subjects ;  so 
that  he  will  be  rather  the  head  of  a  party  than  the  king  of  a 
people. 

"  Then,  too,  when  the  throne  is  likely  to  become  vacant,  — 
that  is,  when  the  king  is  old,  or  is  attacked  with  any  serious 
illness,  —  what  secret  canvassing  and  disturbance  of  men's 
minds  will  take  place  !  The  king  himself  will  most  likely 
wish  that  his  son,  or  some  other  near  relative  or  friend,  should 
succeed  him,  and  he  will  employ  all  his  patronage  with  a 
view  to  such  an  election  ;  appointing  to  public  offices  not  the 
fittest  men,  but  those  whom  he  can  reckon  on  as  voters.  And 
others  will  be  exerting  themselves  to  form  a  party  against 
him ;  so  that  the  country  will  be  hardly  ever  tranquil,  and 
very  seldom  well-governed. 

"  If,  indeed,  men  were  very  different  from  what  they  are, 
there  might  be  superior  advantages  in  an  elective  royalty; 
but  in  the  actual  state  of  things,  the  disadvantages  will  in 
general  greatly  outweigh  the  benefits. 

"  Accordingly  most  nations  have  seen  the  advantage  of 
hereditary  royalty,  notwithstanding  the  defects  of  such  a 
constitution." 

We  heartily  wish  that  all  parents  would  remember 
and  act  upon  the  Archbishop's  views,  as  expressed  in 
the  following  passage.  We  believe  the  caution  is  ex 
tensively  needed.  We  believe  that  many  injudicious 
parents  (with  the  best  intention)  trench  upon  the  incom 
municable  prerogative  of  the  All-wise  and  Almighty, 


AKCHBISHOP   WHATELY  ON  BACON.  277 

by  needlessly  causing  griefs  and  disappointments  to  their 
children,  under  the  idea  that  all  this  forms  a  wholesome 
discipline.  They  forget  that  the  nature  and  effect  of 
every  event  partaking  of  the  character  of  pain  is  deter 
mined  by  the  source  it  comes  from.  When  the  heaviest 
sorrow  comes  by  God's  appointment,  we  bow  in  sub 
mission  ;  and  this  not  merely  because  we  cannot  help  it, 
because  it  is  vain  to  repine,  because  God  will  take  his 
own  way  whether  we  like  it  or  not,  but  because  we 
have  perfect  confidence  in  the  Tightness  of  whatever 
God  may  do,  and  because  we  feel  assured  that  there 
must  be  good  reason  for  all  He  does,  although  we  may 
not  be  able  to  discern  that  reason.  As  regards  man,  we 
have  no  such  confidence.  And  parents  may  be  assured 
that  their  foolish  conduct  towards  their  children  in  many 
cases  is  a  training,  but  an  extremely  bad  one  ;  it  trains 
the  children  to  a  spirit  of  fruitless  and  therefore  bitter 
resistance,  and  of  dogged  resentment.  The  philan 
thropist  Howard,  by  taking  the-  course  the  Archbishop 
reprobates,  drove  his  son  into  a  lunatic  asylum.  He 
followed  that  course  rigorously  and  universally,  and  so 
the  worst  degree  of  mental  disease  ensued  upon  it. 
Most  parents  follow  it  only  in  part ;  and  the  lesser  evil 
follows,  of  alienated  affection,  loss  of  confidence,  jaun 
diced  views,  and  a  soured  heart.  Yet  if  any  parent,  on 
a  cold  morning,  insists  on  his  children  remaining  in  that 
part  of  the  room  most  distant  from  the  fire,  when  their 
warming  their  little  blue  hands  there  could  do  no  harm 
to  any  human  being ;  or  systematically  refuses  to  per 
mit  them  to  go  to  "  children's  parties,"  not  because  they 
are  asked  to  too  many,  but  merely  because  it  is  good 
for  them  to  be  disappointed  ;  or,  generally,  seeks  to 


278  ARCHBISHOP   WHATELY   ON   BACON. 

repress  the  exhibition  of  gaiety  and  light-heartedness, 
because  "  we  must  through  much  tribulation  enter  the 
kingdom  of  God,"  —  then  let  that  parent  be  assured,  that 
surely  as  the  field  sown  with  tares  yielded  a  harvest  of 
tares,  so  surely  will  this  petty  tyranny  bring  forth  its 
natural  result,  of  resentment  and  aversion. 

"  Most  carefully  should  we  avoid  the  error  of  which  some 
parents,  not  (otherwise)  deficient  in  good  sense,  commit,  of 
imposing  gratuitous  restrictions  and  privations,  and  purposely 
inflicting  needless  disappointments,  for  the  purpose  of  inuring 
children  to  the  pains  and  troubles  they  will  meet  with  in 
after-life.  Yes,  be  assured  they  will  meet  with  quite  enough, 
in  every  portion  of  life,  including  childhood,  without  your 
strewing  their  path  with  thorns  of  your  own  providing.  And 
often  enough  will  you  have  to  limit  their  amusements  for  the 
sake  of  needful  study,  to  restrain  their  appetites  for  the  sake 
of  health,  to  chastise  them  for  faults,  and  in  various  ways  to 
inflict  pain  or  privations  for  the  sake  of  avoiding  some  greater 
evils.  Let  this  always  be  explained  to  them  whenever  it  is 
possible  to  do  so ;  and  endeavor  in  all  cases  to  make  them 
look  on  the  parent  as  never  the  voluntary  giver  of  anything 
but  good.  To  any  hardships  which  they  are  convinced  you 
inflict  reluctantly,  and  to  those  which  occur  through  the  dis 
pensation  of  the  All-wise,  they  will  more  easily  be  trained  to 
submit  with  a  good  grace  than  to  any  gratuitous  sufferings 
devised  for  them  by  fallible  men.  To  raise  hopes  on  purpose 
to  produce  disappointment,  to  give  provocation  merely  to 
exercise  the  temper,  and,  in  short,  to  inflict  pain  of  any  kind 
merely  as  a  training  for  patience  and  fortitude,  —  this  is  a 
kind  of  discipline  which  man  should  not  presume  to  attempt. 
If  such  trials  prove  a  discipline,  not  so  much  of  cheerful 
fortitude  as  of  resentful  aversion  and  suspicious  distrust  of 
the  parent  as  a  capricious  tyrant,  you  will  have  only  yourself 
to  thank  for  this  result."  —  (pp.  58,  59.) 


ARCHBISHOP   WHATELY  ON  BACON.  279 

Archbishop  Whately  is  of  opinion  that  the  fear  of 
punishment  in  a  future  life  is  a  motive  of  more  per 
manent  force  than  that  of  temporal  judgments.  We 
quote  his  words  :  — 

"  It  is  true  that  some  men,  who  are  nearly  strangers  to 
such  a  habit,  may  be  for  a  time  more  alarmed  by  the  de 
nunciation  of  immediate  temporal  judgments  for  their  sins, 
than  by  any  considerations  relative  to  '  the  things  which  are 
not  seen  and  which  are  eternal.'  But  the  effect  thus  produced 
is  much  less  likely  to  be  lasting,  or  while  it  lasts  to  be  salu 
tary,  because  temporal  alarm  does  not  tend  to  make  men 
spiritually-minded,  and  any  reformation  of  manners  it  may 
have  produced  will  not  have  been  founded  on  Christian 
principles."  —  (pp.  61,  62.) 

Upon  this  we  remark  that  there  can  be  no  question 
that,  were  future  punishments  realized  as  substantially 
as  temporal  evils,  they  ought  to  have,  and  would  have, 
a  much  greater  effect  in  deterring  from  sinful  conduct. 
But  the  great  difficulty  with  which  men  have  to  contend 
is  the  essential  impossibility  of  realizing  spiritual  and 
unseen  things  in  their  true  bulk  and  importance  ;  of 
feeling  that  a  thing  in  the  Bible,  or  in  a  sermon,  is  as 
real  a  thing  as  something  in  the  daylight,  material  world. 
In  no  case  is  this  difficulty  more  felt  than  in  regard  to 
future  punishments  in  another  life.  We  may  be  far 
mistaken ;  but  the  result  of  considerable  experience  of 
the  ways  and  feelings  of  a  rustic  population,  is  some 
thing  of  doubt  whether  in  practice  the  fear  of  future 
punishment  produces  any  effect  in  deterring  from  evil 
courses.  A  mountain  far  away  may  be  concealed  by  a 
shilling  held  close  to  the  eye  ;  and  future  woe  seems  to 
crass  minds  so  distant  and  so  misty,  that  a  very  small 
immediate  gratification  quite  hides  it  from  view. 


280  ARCHBISHOP   WHATELY  ON  BACON. 

We  remember,  as  illustrative  of  this,  a  circumstance 
related  by  a  neighboring  clergyman.  His  parishioners 
were  sadly  addicted  to  drinking  to  excess.  Men  and 
women  were  alike  given  to  this  degrading  vice.  He  did, 
of  course,  all  he  could  to  repress  it,  but  all  in  vain.  For 
many  years,  he  said,  he  warned  the  drunkards  in  the 
most  solemn  manner  of  the  doom  they  might  expect  in 
another  world ;  but,  so  far  as  he  knew,  not  a  pot  of  ale 
or  glass  of  spirits  the  less  was  drunk  in  the  parish  in 
consequence  of  his  denunciations.  Future  woe  melted 
into  mist  in  the  presence  of  a  replenished  jug  on  a  mar 
ket-day.  A  happy  thought  struck  the  clergyman.  In 
the  neighboring  town  there  was  a  clever  medical  man, 
a  vehement  teetotaler.  Him  he  summoned  to  his  aid. 
The  doctor  came,  and  delivered  a  lecture  on  the  physical 
consequences  of  drunkenness,  illustrating  his  lecture  with 
large  diagrams  which  gave  shocking  representations  of 
the  stomach,  lungs,  heart,  and  other  vital  organs,  as  af 
fected  by  alchohol.  These  things  came  home  to  the 
drunkards,  who  had  not  cared  a  rush  for  final  perdition. 
The  effect  produced  was  tremendous.  Almost  all  the 
men  and  women  of  the  parish  took  the  total-abstinence 
pledge ;  and  since  that  day,  drunkenness  has  nearly 
ceased  in  that  parish.  Nor  was  the  improvement  eva 
nescent;  it  has  lasted  for  two  or  three  years. 

The  Archbishop,  in  the  Annotations  upon  "  Simula 
tion  and  Dissimulation,"  discusses  the  question  whether 
an  author  is  justified  in  disowning  the  authorship  of  his 
anonymous  productions.  It  is,  indeed,  a  considerable 
annoyance  when  meddling  and  impertinent  persons,  in 
spite  of  every  indication  that  the  subject  is  a  disagree 
able  one,  persist  in  trying  byjishing  questions  to  discover 


ARCHBISHOP  WHATELY  ON  BACON.  281 

whether  we  know  who  wrote  such  an  article  in  Fraser's 
Magazine  or  the  Edinburgh  Review;  and  though  no 
man  of  good  sense  or  taste  will  do  this,  no  author  is  safe 
in  the  existing  abundance  of  men  who  are  devoid  of  both 
these  qualities.  We  have  known  instances  in  which  the 
subject  was  recurred  to  time  after  time  by  impertinent 
questioners,  and  in  which,  by  sudden  inquiries  put  in  the 
presence  of  many  listeners,  and  by  interrogating  the  rel 
atives  and  intimate  friends  of  the  supposed  writer,  at 
tempts  were  made  to  elicit  the  fact. 

It  is  curious  to  remark  the  various  opinions  which 
have  been  put  on  record  as  to  the  casuistry  of  such  cases. 
There  is  but  one  opinion  as  to  the  extreme  impertinence 
of  the  questioners ;  and  so  far  as  they  are  concerned,  the 
curtest  refusal  to  answer  their  inquiries  would  be  the 
fittest  way  of  meeting  them.  But,  unhappily,  a  refusal 
to  reply  will  in  many  cases  be  regarded  as  an  answer  in 
the  affirmative ;  and  if  the  only  alternatives  were  a  cor 
rect  answer  and  no  answer,  any  meddling  fool  might  re 
veal  a  literary  secret  of  the  highest  importance.  Dr. 
Johnson  took  up  the  ground  that  an  author  is  justified  in 
directly  denying  that  he  wrote  his  anonymous  writings. 
Sir  Walter  Scott  expressly  declared  that  he  was  not  the 
author  of  the  Waverley  Novels.  Mr.  Samuel  Warren, 
when  a  lad  at  school,  with  characteristic  presumption, 
wrote  to  Sir  Walter  as  such,  and  Sir  Walter's  answer, 
published  in  Mr.  Warren's  Miscellanies,  expressly  repu 
diates  the  authorship.  Mr.  Samuel  Rogers  drew  a  nice 
distinction.  Some  forward  individual,  in  his  presence, 
taxed  Scott  with  the  authorship  of  Waverley  ;  Sir  Wal 
ter  replied,  "  Upon  my  honor,  I  am  not " ;  and  Rogers 
thought  that  Scott  might  fairly  have  replied  in  the  nega- 


282  ARCHBISHOP  WHATELY  ON  BACON. 

tive,  but  that  he  ought  not  to  have  said  "Upon  my 
honor."  Swift's  reply  to  Serjeant  Bettesworth  ap 
proached  a  shade  nearer  the  fact:  — 

"  Mr.  Bettesworth,  I  was  in  my  youth  acquainted  with 
great  lawyers,  who,  knowing  my  disposition  to  satire,  advised 
me  that  if  any  scoundrel  or  blockhead  whom  I  had  lam 
pooned  should  ask,  '  Are  you  the  author  of  this  paper  ? '  I 
should  tell  him  that  I  was  not  the  author :  and  THEREFORE 
I  tell  you,  Mr.  Bettesworth,  that  I  am  not  the  author  of  these 
lines." 

A  writer  in  a  recent  Quarterly  Review  *  appears  to  be 
for  exact  truth  at  all  risks ;  saying  that  the  question 
really  is,  whether  impertinence  in  one  person  will  justify 
falsehood  in  another  ;  and  maintaining  that,  if  the  least 
departure  from  veracity  is  admitted  in  any  instance, 
there  is  no  saying  where  the  thing  will  end. 

Archbishop  Whately  is  reluctant  to  advise  a  depar 
ture  from  the  truth  in  any  case,  but  advises  a  method  of 
meeting  prying  questioners  which  we  trust  reviewers 
will  make  use  of  on  occasion.  We  quote  the  passage  in 
which  his  advice  occurs ;  it  is  admirable  for  point  and 
pungency :  — 

"  A  well-known  author  once  received  a  letter  from  a  peer 
with  whom  he  was  slightly  acquainted,  asking  him  whether 
he  was  the  author  of  a  certain  article  in  the  Edinburgh  Re 
view.  He  replied  that  he  never  made  communications  of 
that  kind,  except  to  intimate  friends,  selected  by  himself  for 
the  purpose,  when  he  saw  fit.  His  refusal  to  answer,  how 
ever,  pointed  him  out  —  which,  as  it  happened,  he  did  not 
care  for  —  as  the  author.  But  a  case  might  occur  in  which 
the  revelation  of  the  authorship  might  involve  a  friend  in 

*  Quarterly  Review,  Vol.  XCIX.  p.  302. 


ARCHBISHOP   WHATELY  ON  BACON.  283 

some  serious  difficulties.  In  any  such  case,  he  might  have 
answered  something  in  this  style :  '  I  have  received  a  letter 
purporting  to  be  from  your  lordship,  but  the  matter  of  it  in 
duces  me  to  suspect  that  it  is  a  forgery  by  some  mischievous 
trickster.  The  writer  asks  whether  I  am  the  author  of  a 
certain  article.  It  is  a  sort  of  question  which  no  one  has  a 
right  to  ask ;  and  I  think,  therefore,  that  every  one  is  bound 
to  discourage  such  inquiries  by  answering  them  —  whether 
one  is  or  is  not  the  author — with  a  rebuke  for  asking  imper 
tinent  questions  about  private  matters.  I  say  '  private,'  be 
cause,  if  an  article  be  libellous  or  seditious,  the  law  is  open, 
and  any  one  may  proceed  against  the  publisher,  and  compel 
him  either  to  give  up  the  author  or  to  bear  the  penalty.  If, 
again,  it  contains  false  statements,  these,  coming  from  an 
anonymous  pen,  may  be  simply  contradicted.  And  if  the 
arguments  be  unsound,  the  obvious  course  is  to  refute  them. 
But  who  wrote  it  is  a  question  of  idle  or  of  mischievous  curi 
osity,  as  it  relates  to  the  private  concerns  of  an  individual. 

'"  If  I  were  to  ask  your  lordship,  '  Do  you  spend  your  in 
come  ?  or  lay  by  ?  or  outrun  ?  Do  you  and  your  lady  ever 
have  an  altercation  ?  Was  she  your  first  love  ?  or  were  you 
attached  to  some  one  else  before  ?  '  If  I  were  to  ask  such 
questions,  your  lordship's  answer  would  probably  be,  to  desire 
the  footman  to  show  me  out.  Now,  the  present  inquiry  I  re 
gard  as  no  less  unjustifiable,  and  relating  to  private  concerns, 
and  therefore  I  think  every  one  bound,  when  so  questioned, 
always,  whether  he  is  the  author  or  not,  to  meet  the  inquiry 
with  a  rebuke. 

'"  Hoping  that  my  conjecture  is  right,  of  the  letter's  being 
a  forgery,  I  remain,'  &c. 

"In  any  case,  however,  in  which  a  refusal  to  answer  does 
not  convey  any  information,  the  best  way,  perhaps,  of  meet 
ing  impertinent  inquiries,  is  by  saying,  '  Can  you  keep  a  se 
cret  ? '  and  when  the  other  answers  that  he  can,  you  may 
reply,  '  Well,  so  can  I.'  "  —  (pp.  68,  69.) 


284  ARCHBISHOP   WHATELY  ON  BACON. 

There  are  some  admirable  remarks  under  the  head  of 
the  Essay  on  "  Parents  and  Children,"  upon  the  pro 
priety  of  considering  in  what  direction  a  boy's  talents 
lie,  in  making  choice  of  a  profession  for  him.  Too  fre 
quently,  when  we  speak  of  a  boy's  mind  having  a  bent 
to  some  particular  course,  it  is  understood  that  what  is 
meant  is,  that  he  has  an  extraordinary  genius  for  it ;  but 
it  is  to  be  remembered  that  — 

"  numbers  of  men  who  would  never  attain  any  extraordinary 
eminence  in  anything,  are  yet  so  constituted  as  to  make  a 
very  respectable  figure  in  the  department  that  is  suited  for 
them,  and  to  fall  below  mediocrity  in  a  different  one."  — 
(pp.  72,  73.) 

Mr.  Thackeray  would  be  delighted  with  the  short 
Annotations  on  the  Essay  "  Of  Nobility."  It  is  in  the 
nature  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  race  to  worship  rank ;  and 
when  (as  in  the  United  States)  rank  is  altogether  ig 
nored,  the  very  violence  of  the  reaction  from  the  way  in 
which  things  are  done  on  this  side  of  the  Atlantic,  indi 
cates  how  resolute  is  the  bent  of  the  species  in  the 
contrary  direction.  It  is  the  man  who  has  a  strong  dis 
position  to  fall  down  at  the  feet  of  a  duke  that  is  most 
likely  to  deny  a  duke,  because  he  is  one,  the  courtesy 
due  to  a  man.  We  think  that  Archbishop  Whately  holds 
the  balance  very  fairly  between  the  two  extremes :  — 

"  In  reference  to  nobility  in  individuals,  nothing  was  ever 
better  said  than  by  Bishop  Warburton  —  as  is  reported  —  in 
the  House  of  Lords,  on  the  occasion  of  some  angry  dispute 
which  had  arisen  between  a  peer  of  noble  family  and  one  of 
a  new  creation.  He  said  that,  '  High  birth  was  a  thing 
which  he  never  knew  any  one  disparage,  except  those  who 
had  it  not ;  and  he  never  knew  any  one  make  a  boast  of  it 
who  had  anything  else  to  be  proud  of.' 


ARCHBISHOP    WHATELY   ON    BACON.  285 

"  It  was  a  remark  by  a  celebrated  man,  himself  a  gentle 
man  born,  but  with  nothing  of  nobility,  that  the  difference 
between  a  man  with  a  long  line  of  noble  ancestors  and  an 
upstart  is,  that  '  the  one  knows  for  certain  what  the  other 
only  conjectures  as  highly  probable,  that  several  of  his  fore 
fathers  deserved  hanging.'"  —  (pp.  121,  122.) 

In  the  Annotations  on  the  Essay  "  Of  Friendship,"  the 
Archbishop  puts  down,  by  irresistible  force  of  argument, 
one  of  the  most  silly,  mischievous,  purposeless,  and 
groundless  errors  which  have  ever  been  taught :  we 
mean  the  doctrine  that  in  a  future  life,  happy  souls  will 
be  no  longer  capable  of  special  individual  friendship. 
We  have  often  been  filled  with  burning  indignation  at 
finding  in  the  book  of  some  empty-headed  divine  who 
never  learned  logic,  or  in  the  sermon  of  some  popular 
preacher  thoroughly  devoid  of  sense,  taste,  scholarship, 
modesty,  and  the  reasoning  faculty,  lengthy  tirades 
about  the  perfection  of  another  world  consisting  much  in 
an  entire  elevation  above  such  earthly  things  as  specific 
attachments.  We  have  seen  and  heard  it  stated  that  in 
a  future  life  blessed  spirits  will  never  remember  or 
recognize  those  who  were  dearest  to  them  in  this  ;  and 
perhaps,  indeed,  will  not  remember  or  recognize  their 
own  identity.  It  is  satisfactory  to  know  that  this  doc 
trine  is  as  groundless  as  it  is  revolting  ;  and  most  truly 
does  Archbishop  Whately  say,  that  — 

"  this  is  one  of  the  many  points  in  which  views  of  the  eternal 
state  of  the  heirs  of  salvation  are  rendered  more  uninterest 
ing  to  our  feelings,  and  consequently  more  uninviting,  than 
there  is  any  need  to  make  them." 

There  is  much  social  wisdom  in  the  remarks  upon  the 
Essay  "  Of  Expense."  And  here  the  Archbishop,  in  a 


286  ARCHBISHOP   WHATELY  ON  BACON. 

graver  tone,  propounds  a  like  philosophy  to  that  which 
Mr.  Thackeray  has  in  several  of  his  writings  enforced 
so  well.  It  would  be  hard  to  reckon  up  the  misery  and 
anxiety  which  are  produced  in  this  country  by  absurd 
and  foolish  straining  to  "  keep  up  appearances  "  ;  that 
is,  with  five  hundred  a  year  to  entertain  precisely  like  a 
man  with  five  thousand,  and  generally  to  present  a  false 
face  to  the  world,  and  seem  other  than  what  one  is. 
When  will  this  curse  of  our  civilized  life  cease  ?  Surely, 
if  people  knew  how  transparent  are  all  the  pretences  by 
which  they  think  to  pass  for  wealthy  folk,  —  how  readily 
neighbors  see  through  them,  —  how  incomparably  more 
respectable  and  more  respected  is  sterling  yet  un 
affected  honesty  in  this  matter,  —  this  foolish  display 
would  cease,  and  the  analogous  forms  of  deception  would 
cease  with  it.  No  one  is  taken  in  by  them.  Any  one 
who  knows  the  world  knows  thoroughly  how,  by  an 
accompanying  process  of  mental  arithmetic,  to  make  the 
deductions  from  the  big  talk  or  the  pretentious  show  of 
some  people,  which  are  needed  to  bring  the  appearance 
down  to  the  reality.  The  greeri-grocer  got  in  for  the 
day  is  never  mistaken  for  the  family  butler.  The  fly 
jobbed  by  the  hour  is  easily  distinguished  from  the 
brougham  which  it  personates.  And  when  Mr.  Smith 
or  Mrs.  Jones  talks  largely  of  his  or  her  aristocratic 
acquaintances,  mentioning  no  name  without  "  a  handle 
to  it,"  no  one  is  for  a  moment  misled  into  the  belief  that 
of  such  is  the  circle  of  society  in  which  Mrs.  Jones  or 
Mr.  Smith  moves. 

In  the  Annotations  on  the  "  Regimen  of  Health," 
there  are  some  useful  remarks  upon  early  and  late 
hours,  and  upon  times  of  study,  which  we  commend  to 


ARCHBISHOP   WHATELY   ON  BACON.  287 

the  notice  of  hard-working  college-men.  And  these 
remarks  close  with  the  following  suggestive  para 
graph  :— 

"  Of  persons  who  have  led  a  temperate  life,  those  will  have 
the  best  chance  of  longevity  who  have  done  hardly  anything 
but  live  ;  what  may  be  called  the  neuter  verbs,  —  not  active 
or  passive,  but  only  being ;  who  have  had  little  to  do,  little 
to  suffer;  but  have  led  a  life  of  quiet  retirement,  without 
exertion  of  body  or  mind,  avoiding  all  troublesome  enter 
prise,  and  seeking  only  a  comfortable  obscurity.  Such  men, 
if  of  a  pretty  strong  constitution,  and  if  they  escape  any  re 
markable  calamities,  are  likely  to  live  long.  But  much 
affliction,  or  much  exertion,  and,  still  more,  both  combined, 
will  be  sure  to  tell  upon  the  constitution,  if  not  at  ouce, 
yet  at  least  as  years  advance.  One  who  is  of  the  character 
of  an  active  or  passive  verb,  or,  still  more,  both  combined, 
though  he  may  be  said  to  have  lived  long  in  everything  but 
years,  will  rarely  reach  the  age  of  the  neuters." —  (p.  305.) 

"  It  is  better,"  said  Bishop  Cumberland,  "  to  wear 
out  than  to  rust  out " ;  yet  there  can  be  no  question  that 
when  the  energies  of  body  and  mind  are  husbanded, 
they  will  go  further  and  last  longer.  Never  to  light 
the  candle  is  the  way  to  make  it  last  forever.  Yet  it 
may  suffice  the  man  who  has  crowded  much  living  into 
a  short  life,  to  think  that  he  has  "  lived  long  in  every 
thing  but  years." 

"  We  live  in  deeds,  not  years  ;  in  thoughts,  not  breaths  ; 
In  feelings,  not  in  figures  on  a  dial. 
We  should  count  time  by  heart-throbs.     He  most  lives, 
Who  thinks  most,  feels  the  noblest,  acts  the  best."  * 

In  remarking  on  the  Essay  "  Of  Suspicion,"  the  Arch 
bishop  writes  as  follows  :  — 

*  Bailey's  Festus. 


288  ARCHBISHOP   WHATELY   ON  BACON. 

"  Multitudes  are  haunted  by  the  spectres,  as  it  were,  of 
vague  surmises  and  indefinite  suspicions,  which  continue  thus 
to  haunt  them,  just  because  they  are  vague  and  indefinite, 
because  the  mind  has  never  ventured  to  look  them  boldly  in 
the  face,  and  put  them  into  a  shape  in  which  reason  can 
examine  them."  —  (p.  317.) 

A  valuable  practical  lesson  is  to  be  drawn  from  the 
principle  here  laid  down.  Only  experience  can  con 
vince  a  man  how  wonderfully  the  mind's  burden  is 
lightened,  by  merely  getting  a  clear  view  of  what  it  has 
to  do  or  bear  or  encounter.  Some  persons  go  through 
life  in  a  ceaseless  worry,  oppressed  and  confused  by  an 
undefined  feeling  'that  they  have  a  vast  number  and 
variety  of  things  to  do,  and  never  feeling  at  rest  or  easy 
in  their  minds.  If  any  man  would  just  take  a  piece  of 
paper  and  note  down  upon  it  what  work  he  has  to  do, 
he  will  be  surprised  to  find  how  much  less  formidable  it 
will  look ;  not  that  it  will  necessarily  look  little,  but 
that  the  killing  thing,  the  vague  sense  of  undefined 
magnitude,  will  be  gone.  So  it  is  with  troubles,  so 
with  doubts.  If  any  one  who  is  possessed  with  the 
general  impression  that  he  is  an  extremely  ill-used  and 
unhappy  man,  would  write  down  the  special  items  of 
his  troubles,  even  though  the  list  should  be  of  consid 
erable  length,  he  will  find  that  matters  are  not  so  bad 
after  all.  There  is  nothing,  we  believe,  that  so  aggra 
vates  all  evil  to  the  minds  of  most  men,  as  when  the 
sense  of  the  vague,  indeterminate,  and  innumerable,  is 
added  to  it ;  and  we  are  strong  believers  in  the  power 
of  the  pen  to  give  most  people  clear  and  well-defined 
thoughts. 

We  may  particularize  as  especially  worthy  of  atten- 


ARCHBISHOP   WHATELY   ON  BACON.  289 

tion,  Archbishop  Whately's  observations  on  the  different 
periods  of  life  at  which  different  men  attain  their  mental 
maturity  (pp.  403,  404)  ;  on  the  license  of  counsel  in 
pleading  a  client's  cause  (pp.  509-512)  ;  on  the  ne 
cessity  of  the  forms  and  ceremonies  of  etiquette,  even 
among  the  closest  friends  (p.  479)  ;  and  upon  the 
causes  of  sudden  popularity  (pp.  500-502).  Students 
will  find  some  valuable  advice  at  pp.  460,  461  ;  and 
you'ng  preachers,  at  pp.  323,  324.  Dissenting  ministers, 
and  other  persons  who  pretend  an  entire  contempt  for 
worldly  wealth,  either  because  the  grapes  hang  beyond 
their  reach,  or  from  envy  of  people  who  are  more  for 
tunate,  may  turn  with  advantage  to  pp.  350,  351. 
Those  amiable  individuals  who  are  wont  to  express 
their  satisfaction  that  such  an  acquaintance  has  met 
with  some  disappointment,  because  it  will  do  him  good, 
are  referred  to  the  Archbishop's  keen  and  just  remark 
upon  such  as  bestow  posthumous  praise  upon  a  man 
whom  they  reviled  and  calumniated  during  his  life,  and 
may  profitably  consider  whether  the  real  motive  from 
which  they  speak  is  not  highly  analogous  :  — 

"  It  may  fairly  be  suspected  that  the  one  circumstance  re 
specting  him  which  they  secretly  dwell  on  with  the  most 
satisfaction,  though  they  do  not  mention  it,  is  that  he  is  dead ; 
and  that  they  delight  in  bestowing  their  posthumous  honors 
on  him,  chiefly  because  they  are  posthumous;  according  to 
the  concluding  couplet  in  the  Verses  on  the  Death  of  Dean 
Swift :  — 

"  And  since  you  dread  no  further  lashes, 
Methinks  you  may  forgive  his  ashes." 

-(p.  19.) 

We  must  draw  our  remarks  to  a  close.     We  feel  how 
imperfect  an  idea  we  have  given  of  Archbishop  Whate- 
13  s 


290  ARCHBISHOP   WHATELY  ON  BACON. 

ly's  Annotations,  —  of  their  range,  their  cogency,  their 
wisdom,  their  experience,  their  practical  instruction, 
their  wit,  their  eloquence.  The  extracts  we  have  quoted 
are  like  a  sheaf  of  wheat  brought  from  a  field  of  a  hun 
dred  acres ;  but  we  trust  our  readers  may  be  induced  to 
study  the  book  for  themselves. 


CHAPTER    XVI. 


SOME  FURTHER  TALK  ABOUT  SCOTCH  AFFAIRS. 
A  LETTER  TO  THE  EDITOR  OP  "  Fraser's  Magazine." 

[!N  a  former  volume  of  Essays,*  I  filled  a  few  pages  with  a  letter 
written  to  the  editor  of  Fraser's  Magazine  by  my  neighbor  and 
friend,  Mr.  Macdonald  of  Craig-Houlakim.  That  letter,  when  pub 
lished  in  the  Magazine,  excited  so  much  interest,  that  Mr.  Macdonald 
was  easily  persuaded  to  follow  it  with  another  similar  one ;  and,  though 
not  going  all  my  friend's  length,  I  have  to  confess  the  substantial 
truth  of  his  statements.  A  little  space  in  the  present  volume  will 
not  unfitly  be  spared  for  his  epistle.] 

GENERAL  ASSEMBLY  HALL,  CASTLE-HILL, 
EDINBURGH,  May  29,  1857. 

Y  DEAR  EDITOR  :  —  A  happy  thought  has 
just  occurred  to  me.  I  am  sitting  here  on 
one  of  the  back  benches  of  the  General  As 
sembly  of  the  Kirk  of  Scotland,  to  which 
venerable  Court  the  Presbytery  of  Whistle-binkie,  with 
much  appreciation  of  real  merit,  has  sent  me  as  one  of 
its  lay  representatives.  In  company  with  some  four  or 
five  hundred  more,  clergymen  and  laymen,  I  am  legis 
lating  for  the  ecclesiastical  good  of  the  people  of  Scot 
land.  I  have  been  engaged  in  this  work  for  a  week 
past,  and  shall  be  for  several  days  longer.  I  am  look- 
*  Leisure  Hours  in  Town,  Chapter  XIV. 


292  SOME  FURTHER  TALK 

ing  out  at  this  moment  on  a  sea  of  anxious  faces,  inter 
spersed  with  many  bald  heads.  The  atmosphere  is  hot 
and  feverish.  As  I  write,  an  outsider,  name  unknown, 
is  making  a  speech  to  which  nobody  is  listening  A 
booming  sound  of  Oarrdurr  occasionally  proceeds  from 
the  chair  when  the  hum  of  conversation  grows  into  a 
roar ;  for  my  good  friend  Professor  Robertson  has  been 
elevated  to  the  dignity  of  moderator,  and  has  taken  his 
Aberdeenshire  accent  along  with  him.  For  the  last 
week  I  have  been  kept  here  to  all  hours  of  the  night, 
and  I  am  uncommonly  sleepy ;  and  so  it  has  occurred 
to  me  that  in  the  intervals  when  the  business  of  the 
House  becomes  devoid  of  interest,  I  might  beguile 
the  time  by  writing  a  letter  to  you,  and  indulging  in  a 
little  further  dissertation  on  the  affairs  of  my  adopted 
country. 

When  I  last  wrote  to  you,  it  was  on  a  gloomy  day  in 
the  end  of  November, — just  that  season  when  you 
London  folk,  who  do  not  know  anything  better,  delude 
yourselves  into  the  belief  that  a  town  life  is  preferable 
to  a  country  one.  Since  then  we  have  seen  once  more, 
what  I  trust  I  never  shall  see  without  leaping-up  of  the 
heart,  the  gradual  revival  of  the  spring.  Snowdrops 
and  crocuses  came  and  went ;  the  birch  grew  fragrant, 
and  the  pine  was  tipped  with  delicate  green  ;  the  prim 
roses  sprang  in  the  woods ;  and  although  the  dire  east- 
winds  held  all  vegetation  back  for  weeks  beyond  the 
usual  period,  yet  when  I  left  home  to  come  to  the  As 
sembly,  I  thought,  with  a  grudge,  that  for  many  a  day 
I  must  forego  the  blossoming  lilacs  and  hawthorns,  the 
fruit-trees  bending  with  their  weight  of  bloom,  the  soft 
green  of  the  beeches,  and  the  floral  glory  of  the  horse- 


ABOUT  SCOTCH  AFFAIRS.  293 

chestnuts,  around  my  Highland  home.  There  is  no 
place  like  the  country,  after  all.  But  upon  that  subject 
you  and  I  shall  not  agree,  so  I  had  better  say  no  more 
about  it. 

Sitting  in  this  atmosphere,  my  thoughts  naturally 
take  an  ecclesiastical  direction  ;  and  while  I  look  at  this 
great  company  of  men,  almost  all  well-educated,  and 
many  of  them  possessing  high  ability,  who  from  Sunday 
to  Sunday  and  from  day  to  day  are  devoting  their  ener 
gies  to  the  religious  instruction  of  the  Scotch  people,  the 
first  reflection  which  rises  to  my  mind  is,  the  total  sever 
ance  which  exists  in  many  parts  of  Scotland  between  a 
sound  creed  and  a  righteous  practice.  Few  things  sur 
prise  me  more  than  the  utter  lack  of  practical  force  in 
Scotch  orthodoxy.  I  have  no  doubt  that  the  same  thing 
must  be  lamented  in  all  countries,  by  all  who  are  anx 
ious  for  the  moral  elevation  of  mankind  ;  but  I  believe 
that  Scotland  is  the  country  which  exhibits  the  evil  in 
its  most  striking  form.  You  can  hardly  find  a  church 
in  this  country  in  which  sound  doctrine  is  not  regularly 
preached ;  you  can  hardly  find  in  country  places  a  child 
that  has  not  been  carefully  instructed  in  the  Shorter  Cat 
echism,  or  a  grown-up  man  or  woman  who  does  not 
make  some  profession  of  religion,  by  attending  church 
and  receiving  the  Sacrament;  but  you  would  be  re 
garded  as  an  arrant  simpleton  if  you  fancied  that  nine 
farmers  out  of  ten  whom  you  saw  most  exemplary  at 
their  devotions  on  Sunday  would  not  cheat  you  on 
Monday,  if  doing  so  would  put  five  shillings  in  their 
pocket.  Of  course,  you  have  plenty  of  grocers  in  Eng 
land  who  mix  sand  with  their  sugar,  and  sugar  with 
their  tea  ;  and  abundance  of  farmers  who  will  sell  you  a 


294  SOME  FURTHER  TALK 

lame  horse  as  a  sound  one  if  they  have  an  opportunity ; 
but  if  suich  a  man  among  you  English  folk  were  scru 
pulous  in  maintaining  morning  and  evening  prayer  in 
his  family,  and  given  to  shedding  tears  in  church  at  the 
practical  pieces  of  the  sermon,  you  would  certainly  con 
clude  that  he  was  adding  hypocrisy  to  his  other  sins. 
Not  so  here.  You  would  judge  quite  too  severely  were 
you  to  conclude  that  a  Scotch  farmer  was  a  hypocrite, 
because  you  found  him  shaking  his  head  sympatheti 
cally  at  the  minister's  warnings  on  Sunday,  and  then  on 
the  following  market-day  at  Whistle-binkie  declaring 
solemnly  that  he  had  paid  fifty  pounds  for  a  broken- 
winded  nag  which  he  had  really  bought  for  five.  The 
true  state  of  the  case  is  that  our  friend  Mr.  Pawkie 
does  not  feel  that  his  religious  belief  has  any  connection 
whatever  with  his  daily  life.  These  are  quite  separate 
things  in  his  mind.  It  is  one  thing  for  a  doctrine  to  be 
perfectly  right  in  a  sermon,  and  quite  another  for  it  to 
be  an  axiom  safe  to  act  upon  in  the  grain-market  or  at 
the  Falkirk  Tryst. 

Last  Sunday,  instead  of  remaining  in  Edinburgh,  and 
getting  several  ribs  broken  in  an  attempt  to  get  into  the 
High  Kirk  to  hear  the  "  Sermon  before  the  Commis 
sioner,"  I  preferred  going  quietly  into  the  country  with 
a  friend  who  has  a  sweet  place  a  few  miles  off,  and  at 
tending  church  with  him.  As  we  walked  through  the 
quiet  morning  to  the  ivy-covered  little  kirk,  surrounded 
by  a  host  of  mouldering  gravestones,  on  which  a  hand 
ful  of  simple-looking  country  folk  were  seated,  awaiting 
the  hour  of  prayer,  I  should  certainly  have  fancied  that 
the  people  were  as  Arcadian  in  innocence  as  the  scene 
was  in  peacefulness,  had  I  not  lived  in  Scotland  for 


ABOUT  SCOTCH  AFFAIRS.  295 

some  ten  years  past.  While  service  was  going  on,  I 
was  especially  struck  by  the  devout  and  sympathetic 
attention  of  a  venerable  old  fogy,  apparently  a  respec 
table  farmer,  with  long  white  hair  and  a  most  benevolent 
expression.  The  sermon,  which  was  an  excellent  one, 
was  upon  the  duty  of  mutual  forbearance  and  kindliness  ; 
its  text  was,  "  Forgive  us  our  debts  as  we  forgive  our 
debtors."  The  good  old  man's  face  was  lighted  up,  and 
he  shook  his  head,  and  gently  waved  his  hand  in  sym 
pathy  with  the  sentiments  expressed  by  the  preacher. 
You  would  have  said  that  he  was  recognizing  the  pa 
thetic  delineation  of  the  principles  on  which  he  was 
himself  acting  in  his  daily  life  of  charity  and  good  will. 
At  length  the  sermon  was  finished,  and  the  minister,  as 
is  usual  here,  read  the  parting  hymn.  An  expression 
of  high  and  holy  joy  beamed  upon  the  patriarch's  coun 
tenance  as  he  listened  to  it ;  he  laid  his  head  back, 
closed  his  eyes,  and  lifted  his  hand  as  though  engaged  in 
silent  prayer,  as  the  clergyman  read  the  lines :  — 

"  Let  such  as  feel  oppression's  load 

Thy  tender  pity  share ; 
And  let  the  helpless,  homeless  poor, 
Be  thy  peculiar  care. 

"  Go,  bid  the  hungry  orphan  be 
With  thy  abundance  blest; 
Invite  the  wanderer  to  thy  door, 
And  spread  the  couch  of  rest." 

In  walking  home  from  church,  I  made  inquiry  of  my 
friend  as  to  the  benevolent  and  pious  old  gentleman 
whose  bearing  had  so  charmed  me.  He  was  a  farmer, 
as  I  had  surmised ;  a  man  paying  some  eight  hundred 
a  year  of  rent,  and  enjoying  a  good  income.  I  learned 


296  SOME  FURTHEK  TALK 

in  addition  to  this,  that  he  was  a  thorough-going  old 
scoundrel ;  a  notorious  cheat,  swearer,  drunkard,  and 
worse.  He  had  palmed  off  more  lame  horses  than  any 
man  in  the  county,  and  told  more  lies  in  his  time  than 
would  sink  a  man-of-war.  The  last  of  his  doings,  which 
he  accomplished  two  days  before  I  saw  him,  was  seizing 
the  bed  from  under  a  poor  widow  whose  husband  had 
died  a  few  months  previously,  and  who  had  been  wear 
ing  her  fingers  to  the  bone  to  support  her  little  children, 
but  had  failed  to  pay  the  old  rascal  a  most  exorbitant 
rent  for  a  miserable  hovel  upon  his  ground.  Yet  this 
man  was  the  most  exemplary  in  the  parish  in  his  atten 
tion  to  the  ordinances  of  religion :  he  never  was  absent 
from  a  sacrament ;  and  on  the  Sunday  after  seizing  the 
widow's  poor  sticks  of  furniture,  I  beheld  him,  radiant 
with  holy  joy,  wagging  his  head  and  waving  his  hand  in 

the  church  of  C .   How  I  wished  I  were  the  Emperor 

of  Russia,  and  the  old  gentleman  one  of  my  subjects. 
Should  not  I  have  given  him  a  taste  of  the  knout! 
shouldn't  I  have  made  him  howl ! 

As  I  write  these  words,  Professor  Pirie  of  Aberdeen 
rises  to  make  a  speech.  He  begins,  "  Aw  doant  see 
thawt,  Moaderahturr,"  as  he  raises  his  fist  in  the  air. 
Had  it  been  Mr.  Phin,  or  Dr.  Tulloch,  or  Mr.  McLeod, 
I  should  have  prepared  to  listen  with  all  attention ;  but 
as  it  is  quite  certain  that  Mr.  Pirie's  speech  will  not  be 
worth  listening  to,  and  equally  certain  that  it  will  be  a 
long  one,  I  shall  occupy  its  duration  in  telling  you  some 
thing  about  a  very  interesting  Scotch  institution,  —  that 
of  our  parish  schools. 

During  the  month  of  March,  in  that  part  of  the  coun- 


ABOUT  SCOTCH  AFFAIRS.  297 

try  in  which  I  reside,  two  days  in  each  week  are  de 
voted  to  the  examination  of  the  schools  by  committees 
of  the  Presbytery ;  and  as  I  feel  a  good  deal  of  interest 
in  the  great  education  question,  and  am  anxious  to  know 
the  true  condition  of  Scotland  in  regard  to  the  training 
of  the  young,  I  accompanied  my  friend,  the  parish 
clergyman,  this  year  to  the  examination  of  seven  or 
eight  of  the  neighboring  schools.  You  must  understand 
that  every  parish  in  Scotland  has  its  parish  school,  as 
certainly  as  its  parish  church ;  and  in  these  schools  gen 
erally  a  sound,  fair  education  may  be  obtained,  quite 
adequate  to  the  circumstances  of  the  Scottish  peasantry. 
Reading,  writing,  arithmetic,  and  religion  as  set  out  in 
the  Catechism  of  the  Scotch  Church,  are  taught  to  all 
comers,  without  distinction  of  sect.  The  result  of  the 
existence  of  these  schools  is,  that  except  in  the  large 
cities,  in  which  the  population  has  outgrown  their  reach, 
all  Scotch  men  and  women  are  able  to  read  and  write. 
Hardly  ever  is  a  bride  or  bridegroom  under  the  neces 
sity  of  affixing  a  cross  to  the  registration  paper,  from 
want  of  capacity  to  sign  the  name.  These  parish 
schools  are  to  all  intents  a  part  of  the  National  Church. 
They  are  endowed  from  its  revenues,  their  teachers  must 
be  churchmen,  and  they  are  under  the  supervision  of  the 
Presbytery  of  the  district.  A  committee,  consisting  of 
three  or  four  clerical  members  of  the  Presbytery,  yearly 
examines  each  school ;  and  I  can  testify  from  personal 
experience  that  the  examination  is  no  sham.  Those  at 
which  I  was  this  year  present  lasted  from  five  to  nine 
hours  each. 

The  salaries  of  the  schoolmasters  are  shamefully  in 
adequate.      They    average    some    twenty-five    pounds 


298  SOME  FURTHER  TALK 

a  year  in  most  cases,  with  a  dwelling-house.  The 
school-houses  are  often  wretchedly  bad.  The  build 
ings  are  maintained,  and  the  salaries  are  paid,  by  the 
heritors;  and  you  will  be  able  to  judge,  from  what  I 
told  you  in  my  last  letter,  how  much  is  in  many  cases  to 
be  expected  from  their  liberality.  Where  the  parish  is 
large,  —  and  parishes  of  twelve  and  fourteen  miles  in 
length  are  common,  even  in  the  Lowlands,  —  there  are 
sometimes  three  or  four  schools  ;  and  in  such  cases  this 
princely  endowment  is  divided  among  their  teachers. 
Besides  the  endowment,  the  teachers  in  all  cases  receive 
the  school  fees  paid  by  the  children.  These  fees  vary 
from  eighteen-pence  to  four  or  five  shillings  a  quarter, 
according  to  the  number  of  branches  taught.  The 
number  of  children  attending  a  parish  school  may  aver 
age  from  fifty  to  a  hundred.  I  have  known  cases  in 
which  the  numbers  amounted  to  two  and  even  three 
hundred  ;  but  these  instances  are  rare,  and  then  we  find 
the  teacher  claiming  for  his  school  the  more  ambitious 
designation  of  academy.  Many  parochial  teachers  de 
rive  an  increase  of  income  from  the  Privy  Council 
grants  ;  but  with  that  curious  jealousy  of  state  inter 
ference  in  religious  matters  which  is  ingrained  into  the 
Scotch  character,  many  eminent  clergymen  refuse  to 
receive  the  grant  on  the  accompanying  condition  that 
the  government  inspector  shall  annually  examine  the 
school.  This,  it  is  maintained  by  some,  with  a  feeling 
which  appears  to  me  Quixotic  in  the  extreme,  implies  a 
doubt  of  the  sufficiency  of  the  examination  by  the  Pres 
bytery. 

The  Scotch  parish  schoolmaster  toils  away  from  nine 
o'clock  in  the  morning  till  three  or  four  in  the  afternoon, 


ABOUT  SCOTCH  AFFAIRS.  299 

with  a  single  hour's  intermission  for  dinner.  He  teaches 
the  alphabet,  four  or  five  reading  classes,  geography, 
history,  arithmetic,  writing,  Latin,  Greek,  French,  ge 
ometry,  and  algebra.  I  have  seen  all  these  things 
taught,  and  well  taught,  by  a  man  who  had  not  forty 
pounds  a  year.  In  remote  country  districts,  the  ele 
mentary  branches  only  are  taught ;  but  there  are  very 
few  schools  in  which  there  is  not  a  Latin  class.  I  ven 
ture  to  assert  that  the  parish  schools  are  for  the  most 
part  extremely  well,  and  in  many  instances  admirably, 
taught ;  and  any  one  who  says  otherwise  must  be  alto 
gether  ignorant  of  the  facts.  The  teachers  are,  with 
rare  exceptions,  quite  exemplary  in  conduct,  and  almost 
always  very  intelligent  men  ;  many  exhibit  an  energy 
and  spirit  in  conducting  their  classes  which  are  extraor 
dinary.  They  teach  all  the  year  round,  except  six 
weeks  in  autumn.  The  holidays  are  at  that  season, 
in  order  that  the  children  may  work  in  the  harvest  field, 
reaping  or  attending  upon  the  reapers.  Indeed,  it  is  a 
matter  of  general  complaint  in  country  districts  that  the 
children  are  frequently  taken  away  from  school  to  eke 
out  their  parent's  earnings  by  field-work.  A  child  of 
seven  or  eight  years  old  can  earn  eightpence  a  day  in 
weeding  turnips  in  the  season.  But  when  he  returns  to 
school  after  some  weeks'  absence,  the  teacher  finds  that 
he  has  forgotten  all  he  had  learned  before. 

I  have  seen  school-rooms  of  all  different  degrees. 
Sometimes  they  are  spacious  and  airy,  the  walls  well 
furnished  with  maps  and  pictures,  and  presenting  a 
general  aspect  of  cheerfulness  and  comfort.  Much 
more  frequently  I  have  found  them  wretched,  ill-ven 
tilated,  over-crowded  apartments,  with  bare  walls  green 


300  *        SOME  FURTHER  TALK 

with  damp,  a  moist  earthen  floor  worn  into  deep  hol 
lows,  and  a  ceiling  from  which  the  plaster  had  fallen  in 
large  patches.  The  forms  and  desks  were  rickety  and 
creaking,  cut  almost  in  pieces  by  the  knives  of  successive 
generations  of  school -boys  ;  and  the  entire  impression 
left  by  the  place  was  stupefying  and  disheartening  to 
the  last  degree.  Shabby  heritors  find  a  pretext  for 
allowing  this  state  of  things  to  continue,  in  the  pros 
pect  of  such  a  legislative  act  as  shall  put  the  entire 
educational  system  of  Scotland  upon  a  new  footing. 
I  heartily  hope,  my  dear  friend,  that  the  day  may  not 
be  far  distant  that  shall  give  our  hard-working  parish 
teachers  something  like  decent  salaries,  —  fifty  pounds 
a  year  is  the  highest  salary  contemplated,  —  and  that 
shall  rid  us  of  those  miserable  school-buildings  in  which 
a  boy  is  driven  stupid  by  the  din  and  the  stifling  atmos 
phere  ;  but  I  cannot  see  why  this  should  not  be  done 
without  taking  the  parish  schools  from  under  the  super 
intendence  of  the  Church.  Whatever  may  have  been 
the  case  in  past  days,  when  both  the  churches  of  Britain 
were  comatose  enough,  I  can  assure  you  that  now  the 
superintendence  of  the  Presbytery  is  most  effective  and 
vigilant ;  and  I  can  assure  you,  likewise,  that  the  people 
of  Scotland,  as  a  whole,  have  perfect  confidence  in  the 
schools  as  at  present  constituted.  All  sects  of  dissenters 
send  their  children  most  willingly  to  the  parish  school. 
The  Lord  Advocate,  who  has  brought  into  Parliament 
repeated  bills  for  separating  the  schools  from  the 
Church,  is  a  mere  tool  in  the  hands  of  the  leaders  of  the 
"Free  Kirk."  That  "body"  has  built  schools  of  its 
own  in  many  parishes ;  and  finding  that  it  cannot  sup 
port  them,  would  like  to  get  them  taken  oif  its  hands. 


ABOUT  SCOTCH  AFFAIRS.  301 

This  the  Lord  Advocate's  bill  would  do.  I  do  not  ex 
pect,  my  dear  editor,  that  you  will  entirely  sympathize 
with  me  in  what  you  may  possibly  regard  my  old-fash 
ioned  and  illiberal  notions  upon  this  point ;  but  they  are 
the  result  of  a  good  deal  of  observation  and  no  little 
reflection,  and  I  hold  them  firmly. 

A  great  day  in  the  parish  is  that  of  the  school  exami 
nation.  The  children  are  all  assembled  betimes,  with 
clean  faces,  and  in  their  Sunday  clothes.  It  is  a  time 
of  solemn  expectation ;  and  the  teacher,  as  he  walks  up 
and  down,  giving  his  final  directions,  is  a  little  nervous. 
The  three  or  four  clergymen  who  constitute  the  ex 
amining  committee  at  length  appear.  The  school-room 
is  crowded  with  parents,  who  have  come  to  enjoy  the 
proficiency  of  their  children ;  and  a  heritor  or  two 
may  be  seen,  who  have  sought  a  reflected  happiness  in 
spending  two  or  three  pounds  in  prize-books,  which  will 
make  many  little  hearts  light  and  proud  for  longer  than 
that  one  day.  It  is  whispered  in  the  school  that  the 
master  has  got  a  new  coat,  which  appears  to-day  for  the 
first  time.  The  proceedings  are  opened  with  a  prayer, 
offered  by  one  of  the  presiding  ministers ;  then  the 
classes  are  successively  called,  beginning  with  the  young 
est.  Who  could  be  otherwise  than  interested  and 
sympathizing,  when  two  or  three  fluttered  little  things 
come  up  trembling,  and  say  their  ABC,  making  a  host 
of  mistakes,  which  they  never  would  have  made  but  for 
the  awful  presence  of  the  Presbytery  !  Who  but  must 
feel  for  the  poor  cottager's  wife  on  the  back  form,  as 
she  hears  her  little  boy  going  all  wrong  in  what  he  said 
to  her  perfectly  right  an  hour  before  ?  Pat  the  little 
fellow  on  the  head,  and  tell  him  he  is  a  clever  boy  and 


302  SOME  FURTHER  TALK 

has  done  capitally ;  it  will  tide  him  over  one  sad  dis 
appointment  of  his  life,  and  the  innocent  fiction  will 
never  rise  up  against  you  elsewhere.  Then  come  the 
reading  classes ;  and  here  you  may  by  degrees  examine 
more  sharply.  Almost  all  read  well  —  of  course  with 
the  broadest  Scotch  accent ;  almost  all  spell  admirably, 
and  most  understand  completely  what  they  read.  The 
reading-books  in  general  use  are  a  series  edited  by  Dr. 
M'Culloch,  of  Greenock ;  an  excellent  series,  filled  with 
pieces  so  attractive  that  children  will  read  them  for 
their  interest,  and  almost  forget  that  they  are  tasks.  I 
must  confess  that  when  I  have  been  at  school  examina 
tions,  I  have  sometimes  found  myself  reading  Dr. 
M'Culloch  on  my  own  account,  instead  of  attending  to 
the  lesson  that  was  going  forward.  The  children  gener 
ally  exhibit  a  thorough  acquaintance  with  Scripture 
history  ;  and  the  Shorter  Catechism,  an  admirable  com- 
pend  of  sound  theology,  and  quite  in  keeping  with  the 
Thirty-nine  Articles,  is  at  the  finger-ends  of  all.  Gram 
mar  is  generally  well  taught ;  geography,  sometimes 
extraordinarily  well.  Specimens  of  the  writing  of  the 
pupils,  each  on  a  large  sheet  of  paper,  are  hung  up 
round  the  room.  The  Latin  and  Greek  classes  come 
last ;  and  the  exhibition  is  wound  up  by  recitations, 
delivered  by  a  few  of  the  most  distinguished  scholars. 
Sometimes  the  effect  of  these  is  irresistibly  ludicrous. 
A  very  favorite  piece  is  Campbell's  Hohenlinden.  A 
boy  stands  up,  amid  awful  silence,  and  elevating  his 
right  hand  in  the  air,  with  a  face  utterly  blank  of  ex 
pression,  proceeds  to  repeat  the  poem,  accentuating 
very  strongly  every  alternate  syllable,  and  completely 
ignoring  the  points  :  — 


ABOUT  SCOTCH  AFFAIRS.  303 

"  On  Lunden  whan  the  sahn  was  law 
Ul  bloodless  lah  thuntroaden  snaw 
Und  dark  uz  wuntur  wuz  the  flaw 
Avizar  roallin  rawpidlah." 

Some  clergymen  pride  themselves  on  their  power  of 
drawing  out  the  intelligence  of  children  by  their  mode 
of  putting  questions  to  them.  And  occasionally  I  have 
seen  this  well  done ;  more  frequently,  very  absurdly. 
The  following  is  a  specimen  of  a  style  of  examination 
which  I  have  myself  more  than  once  witnessed  :  — 

"  Wahl,  deer  cheldrun,  what  was  it  that  swallowed 
Jonah  ?  Was  it  a  sh-sh-sh-sh-shark  ?  "  —  "  Yahs  ! "  roar 
a  host  of  voices.  "  Noa,  deer  cheldrun,  it  was  not  a 
shark.  Then  was  it  an  al-al-al-allig-allig-alligator  ? " 
"  Yahs  ! "  exclaim  the  voices  again.  "  Noa,  deer  chel 
drun,  it  was  not  an  alligator.  Then  was  it  a  wh-wh- 
wh-whaaale  ?  "  "  Noa,"  roar  the  voices,  determined  to 
be  right  this  time.  "  Yahs,  deer  cheldrun,  it  was  a 
whale." 

The  prizes  are  distributed  ;  and  then  each  clergyman 
in  turn  makes  a  speech,  expressive  of  his  opinion  of  the 
appearance  which  the  scholars  have  made,  and  also  of 
the  skill  and  industry  of  the  teacher.  This  opinion  is 
always  complimentary  ;  and  in  cases  where  teacher  and 
scholars  are  in  an  unsatisfactory  state,  it  is  amusing  to 
witness  the  struggles  of  the  speaker  to  say  something 
which  shall  have  a  general  tone  of  compliment,  and  yet 
mean  nothing.  Finally,  one  of  the  examiners  gives  an 
address  to  the  children,  inculcating  the  general  doctrine 
that  they  ought  to  be  good  boys  and  mind  their  lessons. 
A  prayer  closes  the  proceedings  ;  and  then  the  ministers 
are  off  to  the  manse  to  dinner. 


304  SOME   FURTHER   TALK 

A  great  many  parochial  teachers  add  a  little  to  their 
income  by  holding  certain  small  parish  offices ;  such  as 
those  of  precentor,  session-clerk,  inspector  of  poor,  post 
master,  and  the  like.  I  have  known  all  these  offices 
accumulated  upon  one  individual.  Many  teachers  are 
very  eccentric  men.  Indeed,  one  would  say  that  no  one 
but  a  rather  singular  being  would  continue  for  thirty 
or  forty  years  in  a  post  entailing  so  much  toil  and  offer 
ing  such  poor  remuneration.  A  short  time  since,  at  a 
school  examination,  I  found  a  large  piece  of  pasteboard, 
bearing  in  a  very  legible  hand  the  following  inscription, 
written  by  the  teacher,  and  evidently  intended  to  be 
exhibited  to  the  children  :  — 

"To  MR.  SMITH. 
"From  a    Correspondent. 

"  Mr.  Smith,  thou  art  good  and  mild, 
Beloved  by  every  little  child, 
Thou  wast  formed  for  usefulness, 
Boys  to  comfort  and  girls  to  bless." 

You  will  hardly  believe  me  when  I  tell  you  that  the 
author  of  this  remarkable  poem  was  really  a  very 
efficient  and  successful  teacher  of  young  children ;  and 
possibly  he  was  quite  correct  in  judging  that  to  exhibit 
such  an  effusion  as  something  which  he  had  received 
from  an  unknown  admirer  would  tend  to  make  his 
pupils  hold  him  in  greater  veneration.  My  observation 
of  many  parochial  schoolmasters  has  led  me  to  the 
belief,  not  only  that  a  total  want  of  common  sense  in 
the  affairs  of  ordinary  life  is  quite  compatible  with  a 
man's  being  an  excellent  teacher,  but  even  that  such 
a  want  of  common  sense  is  directly  conducive  to  his 


ABOUT  SCOTCH  AFFAIRS.  305 

success  as  a  teacher.  I  have  a  theory  by  which  I  think 
I  can  both  prove  and  explain  this  somewhat  paradoxical 
opinion  ;  but  I  need  not  bother  you  with  it  here. 

The  very  best  teachers  I  have  ever  known  have  been 
men  of  no  great  extent  of  information,  and  of  no  claims 
to  scholarship,  but  who  have  possessed  a  wonderful 
power  of  communicating  whatever  knowledge  they 
had  got.  I  have  known  one  or  two  men,  rather 
stupid  and  indiscreet  in  daily  life,  but  who  seemed  to 
become  inspired  when  placed  in  the  presence  of  a  class 
of  boys  or  girls  (for  both  boys  and  girls  are  educated 
at  our  parish  schools),  and  who  displayed  a  positive 
genius  for  putting  all  they  had  to  tell  their  pupils  in  the 
most  attractive  and  striking  shape.  And  once  or  twice 
I  have  come  across  quaint,  respectable  old  characters, 
who  have  kept  school  for  fifty  or  sixty  years,  content  in 
their  humble  and  useful  vocation  ;  much  given  to  quoting 
Latin,  especially  in  speaking  to  persons  who  did  not 
understand  it ;  treasuring  up  a  little  store  of  old  classi 
cal  authors  in  usum  Delphini,  one  of  which  you  might 
find  them  reading  in  their  garden  on  a  summer  day  ; 
fond  of  talking  about  their  old  days  at  college,  three 
score  years  since  ;  and  recounting  with  pride  how  they 
had  beaten,  in  the  Latin  class  at  St.  Andrews,  men  who 
had  become  the  dignitaries  of  the  kirk,  the  bar,  and  the 
bench  ;  or  _how  they  had  lived  for  a  term  in  the  same 
lodgings  with  Smith,  who  became  physician  to  the  Court 
of  St.  Petersburg ;  with  Brown,  who  rose  to  be  Prime 
Minister  to  the  King  of  Ashantee  ;  or  with  Reid,  who 
arrived  at  the  dignity  of  an  Austrian  marshal.  And 
philosophic  men  like  you  and  me  may  perhaps  bethink 
us,  that  to  a  Scotchman,  with  his  yearning  to  the  land 


306  SOME  FURTHER   TALK 

of  the  mountain  and  the  flood,  it  may  have  proved  a 
less  happy  lot  to  rise  to  wordly  honor  far  away,  than  to 
cuff  the  ears  and  win  the  hearts  of  many  generations 
of  school-boys,  and  to  be  the  oracle  of  the  neighborhood, 
the  first  man  in  his  native  village. 

I  have  already  said  that  the  close  of  the  school  ex 
amination-day  is  a  dinner  at  the  manse,  to  which  the 
schoolmasters  are  always  asked,  in  addition  to  the 
clergymen  who  acted  as  examiners.  I  particularly  en 
joy  dining  with  my  parish  clergymen  on  the  days  of  the 
school  examinations.  I  meet  several  of  the  neighboring 
clergy  who  would  please  you  greatly  ;  and  I  listen  with 
a  fresh  interest  to  their  conversation  about  church  and 
college  affairs.  It  opens  a  new  field  to  me.  I  hear  a 
great  deal  of  men  who,  like  the  winner  of  the  Derby, 
are  great  in  their  own  sphere,  but  quite  unknown  to  the 
world  beyond  it.  I  remember  your  telling  me  that  you 
had  never  heard  of  our  great  preacher  Caird  till  his 
sermon  was  published  some  months  ago  by  the  Queen's 
command.  And  I  could  mention  the  names  of  a  score 
of  Scotch  preachers  and  professors,  all  great  men  in 
their  way,  but  as  unknown  to  you  as  is  the  name  of  the 
cook  of  the  King  of  the  Cannibal  Islands.  Now  I  like 
to  hear  about  these  men.  I  like  to  get  an  insight  into 
a  new  set  of  interests  and  a  new  mode  of  life.  I  like 
to  get  a  view  of  the  Scotch  character  from  a  stand-point 
different  from  my  own. 

On  such  an  occasion  lately,  I  listened  to  much  lamen 
tation  over  the  pawJciness  and  want  of  straightforward 
ness  which  are  found  in  many  country  districts.  Apropos 
of  this,  a  minister  who  was  present  related  how  a  coun 
try  clergyman  who  died  within  the  last  twenty  years, 


ABOUT  SCOTCH  AFFAIRS.  307 

one  Sunday  astonished  his  congregation  in  the  following 
manner.  He  announced  his  text  with  much  solemnity. 
It  ran  thus:  — 

I  said  in  my  haste.  All  men  are  liars. 

Having  read  this  verse  twice  with  great  emphasis,  he 
proceeded  with  his  sermon  in  an  abstracted  and  medita 
tive  tone.  "  Ay,  David,"  he  exclaimed,  "  you  said  that 
in  your  haste,  did  you  ?  Gif  you  had  leeved  in  this 
parish,  you  would  have  said  it  at  your  leisure ! " 

"  To  show  you,"  said  another  clergyman,  "  how  little 
feeling  many  persons,  even  of  respectable  standing,  have, 
that  there  is  anything  immoral  in  a  falsehood  told  in  the 
way  of  business,  I  will  tell  you  what  occurred  to  myself 
when  I  came  to  my  parish.  Like  every  minister  with 
an  extensive  parish,  I  wanted  a  horse.  I  mentioned  my 
need  to  a  highly  respectable  farmer,  who  told  me  that 
by  great  good  luck  he  knew  where  I  could  be  suited  at 
once.  At  a  farm  a  few  miles  off  there  was  for  sale  just 
such  an  animal  as  I  wanted.  I  said  that  I  should  lose 
no  time  in  going  over  to  see  the  horse  in  question.  '  Na, 
na,  sir,'  said  my  friend,  with  a  look  of  remarkable 
shrewdness  ;  '  na,  na,  that  will  never  do.  If  you  were 
to  gang  over  and  say  you  wanted  the  beast,  the  farmer 
would  put  an  extra  ten  or  fifteen  pounds  on  his  price. 
But  I  '11  tell  you  what  we  '11  do.  To-morrow  forenoon 
I  '11  drive  you  over  to  the  farm,  and  I  '11  say  to  the  farm 
er,  i  This  is  Mr.  Green,  our  new  minister ;  I  was  jist 
gieing  him  a  bit  drive  to  see  the  country.  And  as  we 
gaed  by  your  house  jist  by  chance,  I  telled  him  that  you 
had  a  bit  beast  to  sell ;  and  although  I  didna  think  it 
wad  suit  him  ava',  yet  it  might  do  no  harm  to  look  at  it 
at  ony  rate.  He  wasna'  for  comin'  in,  the  minister,  for 


308  SOME  FURTHER  TALK 

he  hadna  time ;  but  we  have  jist  come  in  for  ae  minute, 
and  if  the  beast 's  at  name,  ye  can  let  us  see 't ;  but  if 
no,  it  doesna  matter  a  grain.'  Noo,  if  I  say  that  to  him, 
he  '11  think  we  dinna  heed  aboot  the  beast,  and  he  '11  no 
raise  the  price  o't.'  I  was  quite  surprised  that  a  man  of 
good  character  should  propose  to  a  clergyman  to  become 
his  accomplice  in  a  plan  of  trickery  and  falsehood  ;  but 
when  I  recovered  breath,  I  told  my  man  exactly  what  I 
thought  of  his  proposal,  and  said  I  should  want  a  horse 
for  ever  rather  than  get  one  by  telling  a  score  of  lies. 
But  my  friend  was  quite  unabashed  by  my  rebuke,  and 
evidently  thought  I  was  a  young  man  of  Quixotic  no 
tions  of  honor,  of  which  a  little  longer  experience  of  life 
would  happily  rid  me." 

I  was  amused  by  a  story  I  heard  at  the  same  time,  of 
a  simple-minded  country  parson,  whose  parish  lay  upon 
the  Frith  of  Clyde,  and  so  became  gradually  overspread 
with  fashionable  villas,  to  which  families  from  Edinburgh 
and  Glasgow  resorted  in  summer  and  autumn.  This 
worthy  man  persisted  in  exercising  the  same  spiritual 
jurisdiction  over  these  new-comers  which  he  had  been 
wont  to  exercise  over  his  rustic  parishioners  before  their 
arrival.  And  in  particular,  in  his  pastoral  visitations, 
he  insisted  on  examining  the  lady  and  gentleman  of  the 
house  in  The  Shorter  Catechism,  in  the  presence  of  their 
children  and  servants.  It  happened,  one  autumn,  that 
the  late  Lord  Jeffrey,  after  the  rising  of  the  Court  of 
Session,  came  to  spend  the  long  vacation  in  the  parish 

of  L .    Soon  after  his  arrival,  the  minister  intimated 

from  the  pulpit  that  upon  a  certain  day  he  would  "  hold 
a  diet  of  catechising  "  in  the  district  which  included  the 
dwelling  of  the  eminent  judge.  True  to  his  time,  he 


ABOUT   SCOTCH  AFFAIRS.  309 

appeared  at  Lord  Jeffrey's  house,  and  requested  that  the 
entire  establishment  might  be  collected.  This  was  read 
ily  done ;  for  almost  all  Scotch  clergymen,  though  the 
catechising  process  has  become  obsolete,  still  visit  each 
house  in  the  parish  once  a  year,  and  collect  the  family 
to  listen  to  a  fireside  lecture.  But  what  was  Lord  Jef 
frey's  consternation  when,  the  entire  household  being 
assembled  in  the  drawing-room,  the  worthy  minister  said 
in  a  solemn  voice,  "  My  Lord,  I  always  begin  my  exam 
ination  with  the  head  of  the  family.  Will  you  tell  me, 
then,  'What  is  Effectual  Calling?'"  Never  was  an 
Edinburgh  Reviewer  more  thoroughly  nonplussed.  After 
a  pause,  during  which  the  servants  looked  on  in  horror 
at  the  thought  that  a  judge  should  not  know  his  Cate 
chism,  his  lordship  recovered  speech,  and  answered  the 
question  in  terms  which  completely  dumbfounded  the 
minister,  "  Why,  Mr.  Smith,  a  man  may  be  said  to 
discharge  the  duties  of  his  calling  effectually  when  he 
performs  them  with  ability  and  success."* 

As  I  was  writing  these  last  words,  the  word  Episco 
pacy  caught  my  ear ;  and  looking  up,  I  observed  a  cler 
gyman,  unknown  to  me,  addressing  the  House.  The 
matter  at  the  moment  under  discussion  was  some  bill 
which  it  is  proposed  to  introduce  into  Parliament  to  re- 

*  To  explain  Mr.  Smith's  consternation  to  an  English  reader,  it 
may  be  well  to  give  the  question  and  answer  in  the  form  in  which 
they  are  familiar  to  young  Scotland. 

Question.  —  What  is  Effectual  Calling? 

Answer.  —  Effectual  Calling  is  the  work  of  God's  Spirit,  whereby, 
convincing  us  of  our  sin  and  misery,  enlightening  our  minds  in  the 
knowledge  of  Christ,  and  renewing  our  wills,  he  doth  persuade  and 
enable  us  to  embrace  Jesus  Christ,  freely  offered  to  us  in  the  Gospel. 


310  SOME  FURTHER  TALK 

move  the  disabilities  of  Scotch  Episcopal  ministers.  The 
speaker,  who  spoke  in  the  main  smartly  and  cleverly, 
was  evidently  one  of  the  last  who  cling  to  what  may  be 
called  Presbyterian  Puseyism.  His  speech  manifested 
an  enmity  to  prelatic  government  just  such  as  many  men 
in  England  bear  towards  Presbyterian.  "  The  bishops 
of  the  Scotch  Episcopal  Church,"  said  he,  "  illegally 
take  to  themselves  territorial  titles,  and  call  themselves 
the  Bishops  of  Glasgow,  of  Aberdeen,  and  so  forth. 
Well,  who  cares  ?  They  have  precisely  the  same  right 
to  these  designations  as  the  pickpockets  who  are  taken 
before  the  London  police-magistrates  have  to  the  aliases 
which  they  assume.  And  if  a  Scotch  soi-disant  bishop 
chooses  to  wear  an  apron,  what  have  we  to  do  with  that  ? 
He  is  just  as  much  entitled  to  wear  a  bit  of  silk  as  any 
other  old  woman.  But  if  he  goes  to  the  pulpit  with  a 
cap,  then  indeed  we  have  some  reason  to  complain ;  for 
all  things  considered,  it  is  unjustifiable  that  the  cap 
should  not  be  provided  with  bells."  The  intemperate 
speech  of  this  gentleman  was  succeeded  by  a  very  judi 
cious  and  excellent  one  from  Mr.  Sheriff  Tait,  the  brother 
of  the  Bishop  of  London ;  and  the  Assembly  came  to 
some  decision  which  I  remember  appeared  to  me  a  sen 
sible  one,  but  I  have  not  the  faintest  recollection  what  it 
was. 

But  the  little  incident  gave  a  new  direction  to  my 
thoughts,  and  set  me  thinking  upon  the  singular  phase 
of  feeling  which  has  prevailed  for  some  years  in  the 
Scotch  Church.  The  horror  of  Episcopal  government 
and  ritual  which  prevailed  in  the  minds  of  the  founders 
of  the  Kirk  was  indescribably  great.  Not  far  from  my 
door  is  the  burying-place  of  two  men  who  were  hanged 


ABOUT  SCOTCH  AFFAIRS.  311 

in  the  persecuting  days  ;  and  the  inscription  on  the  stone 
(which  was  often  touched  up  by  Old  Mortality)  states 
that  they  died  to  bear  witness  "  against  Tyranny,  Per 
jury,  and  Prelacy''1  And  in  the  mind  of  most  Scotch 
men  then,  and  in  the  mind  of  the  lower  orders  yet, 
Prelacy  is  held  in  precisely  the  estimation  which  you 
may  infer  from  the  connection  in  which  it  stands  there. 
A  liturgy  and  a  bishop  were  regarded  as  emanations 
from  the  Devil.  Yet  now,  singular  to  say,  the  Scotch 
Church  contains  a  body  of  clergymen,  considerable  in 
point  of  numbers  and  pre-eminent  in  point  of  talent, 
which  you  would  say  at  once  had  a  strong  Episcopal 
bias. 

It  would  be  invidious  to  mention  names,  but  I  ven 
ture  to  say  that  if  you  go  to  hear  five  out  of  six  of  our 
most  distinguished  preachers,  you  will  find  their  prayers 
taken  almost  entirely  from  the  Anglican  liturgy,  or  from 
the  writings  of  the  men  who  drew  up  the  Anglican  litur 
gy.  If  you  should  happen  to  converse  with  the  ablest 
and  most  cultivated  of  the  Scotch  clergy,  you  will  find 
that  the  wish  for  a  liturgy  is  deeply  felt,  and  almost 
universal.  I  was  informed  within  the  last  week  that 
one  of  the  most  conspicuous  of  the  parish  clergymen  of 
Edinburgh  has  compiled  a  liturgy  for  use  in  his  own 
church,  which  he  intends  to  print  and  place  in  the  hands 
of  the  congregation.  There  is  a  strong  and  growing  sense 
among  the  educated  people  of  Scotland  that  the  Reforma 
tion  in  this  country  went  a  great  deal  too  far,  that  the 
ritual  has  been  made  repulsively  bare  and  bald,  and  that 
many  things  were  tabooed  for  their  association  with 
Popery,  which  formed  no  part  of  its  essence,  and  are 
founded  upon  feelings  and  principles  which  are  integral 


312  SOME  FURTHER  TALK 

parts  of  man's  higher  nature.     There  is  a  strong  sense  in 
this  country  that  it  was  extremely  absurd  and  wrong  to 
refuse  any  recognition  to  the  festivals  of  the  Christian 
year.     There  is  a  very  general  wish  for  some  prescribed 
form  of  the  marriage  and  baptism  service.     There  is  an 
urgent  demand  for  the  introduction  of  a  burial  service ; 
and  indeed  to  any  one  who  has  often  listened  to  the 
beautiful  words  of  hope  and  consolation  which  in  your 
country  are  breathed  over  a  Christian  grave,  there  is 
something  inexpressibly  revolting  in  the  Scotch  fashion 
of  laying  our  friends  down  in  their  last  resting-place 
without  one  Christian  word,  —  without  a  syllable  to  tell 
in  what  belief  we  lay  them  there,  or  a  prayer  that  we, 
when  our  day  comes,  "  through  the  grave,  and  gate  of 
death,   may   pass    to   our    joyful    resurrection."      And 
there  is  a  strong  movement,  which  is  rigidly  opposed  by 
the  ignorant  and  prejudiced,  towards  true  ecclesiastical 
architecture.      Stained    glass,  which   would   have  been 
smashed  half  a  century  ago,  is  common  in  large  towns ; 
and  the  use  of  the  organ  is  evidently  approaching.    One 
hears  it  often  wished  that  the  congregation,  who  now  sit 
silent  through  the  entire  service  (except  joining  in  the 
Psalms),  should   at   least  respond   so   far   as   to    utter 
Amen  at  the  end  of  the  prayers ;  and  very  many  of  the 
clergy  take  pains   to   have  the  whole  worship  of  God 
conducted  with  an  order  and  decency  which  the  genera 
tion  before  last  would  assuredly  have  thought  carnal  and 
legal  abomination.     The  late  Sir  Henry  Moncrief,  who 
was  minister  of  the  West  Church  of  Edinburgh,  used  to 
walk  up  to  his  pulpit  every  Sunday  with  his  hat  on  his 
head,  to  testify  to  the  grand  Knoxite  doctrine  that  no 
reverence  is  due  to  stone  and  lime ;    but  any  such  pro- 


ABOUT  SCOTCH  AFFAIRS.  313 

ceeding  now  would  excite  just  as  much  disgust  for  the 
pigheadedness  of  the  individual  that  did  it,  in  Scotland, 
as  it  would  among  you. 

One  hears  occasionally  of  amusing  instances  of  the 
pursuit  of  order  under  difficulties  by  the  younger  clergy. 
I  heard  of  such  a  case  the  other  day.  The  Scotch  mar 
riage  service,  you  must  know,  is  a  very  brief  one.  It  is 
always  performed  by  a  single  clergyman,  who  very 
rarely  appears  in  canonicals.  Two  young  clergymen, 
curates  of  a  town  in  the  west  of  Scotland,  both  (for  I 
know  them  well)  accomplished  and  able  men,  resolved 
to  be  the  first  to  introduce  a  more  imposing  method. 
Accordingly,  one  of  them  having  been  asked  to  celebrate 
a  marriage  in  town,  both  went  to  the  place,  arrayed  in 
gown  and  band.  One  of  them  gave  the  very  short  ad 
dress  upon  matrimonial  duties  which  forms  part  of  the 
service,  and  the  other  offered  the  prayers  and  received 
the  declarations  of  the  wedded  couple.  The  parties,  I 
believe,  regard  themselves  as  the  only  couple  in  Drums- 
leekie  who  ever  were  effectually  and  sufficiently  mar 
ried  ;  but  dire  was  the  wrath  of  the  true-blue  Presbyte 
rians  of  the  place. 

Now  what  is  the  meaning  of  all  this?  You  must 
not  fancy,  my  dear  editor,  that  the  Kirk  of  Scotland  is 
growing  ripe  for  amalgamation  with  the  Church  of  Eng 
land.  Some  members  of  what  you  might  call  the  Epis- 
copising  party  in  the  Scotch  Church  are  really  anxious  for 
union  with  the  Anglican  Church ;  but  by  far  the  greater 
number  of  its  adherents  repudiate  any  such  aim,  and  hold 
stoutly  by  Presbyterian  Church-government.  They  say 
that  they  are  striving  for  greater  propriety  and  or 
der  in  the  worship  of  God ;  they  maintain  that  although 

14 


314  SOME  FURTHER  TALK 

Presbytery  has  generally  been  associated  with  an  un- 
liturgical  worship  and  a  bald  ritual,  there  is  no  necessary 
connexion  between  them ;  and  they  hold  that,  without 
going  the  length  of  Episcopal  government,  they  may 
borrow  from  the  Anglican  Church  its  architecture,  its 
prayers,  its  baptismal  and  burial  services.  They  will 
take,  they  say,  whatever  they  think  good  in  itself,  with 
out  thinking  it  has  been  contaminated  by  the  touch  of 
Prelacy.  The  Puritan  reformers,  on  the  contrary,  never 
thought  of  considering  any  right  or  usage  on  its  own 
merits.  The  simple  question  was,  Has  this  been  ob 
served  in  the  Episcopal  Church  ?  And  if  it  had  been 
observed  there,  that  was  quite  sufficient.  Right  or 
wrong,  it  was  sent  packing.  It  would  amuse  you  to  see 
how  exactly  many  of  the  most  evangelical  of  the  Scotch 
clergy,  who  never  fail  to  denounce  Puseyism  as  something 
dreadful,  have  copied  the  every-day  dress  which  we  are 
accustomed  to  consider  the  mark  of  Puseyism.  -I  look 
up  now,  arid  glance  round  the  Assembly  Hall.  A  few 
years  ago,  the  regular  Scotch  clerical  attire  was  a  dress- 
coat  and  a  waistcoat  revealing  abundance  of  linen.  But 
now  I  see  nothing  but  those  silk  waistcoats,  buttoning  to 
the  throat,  which  I  am  told  tailors  designate  as  the  M. 
B.,  or  Mark  of  the  Beast ;  long  frock-coats,  many  of 
them  devoid  of  collars ;  plain  white  bands  round  the 
neck,  devoid  of  tie  of  any  kind ;  and  cheeks  from  which 
the  whiskers  have  been  reaped.  And  did  not  that  good 
old  gentleman,  Professor  Robertson,  when  summoned  in 
to  take  the  chair  of  this  Assembly,  enter  in  full  canoni 
cals  (which  all  moderators  do),  but  wearing  lavender 
kid  gloves  (which  no  moderator  ever  did  before)  ?  Some 
of  the  quaint  old  ministers  from  the  Highlands  shook 


ABOUT  SCOTCH  AFFAIRS.  315 

their  heads  at  the  sight,  and  hoped  we  might  not  all  be 
Prelatists  soon  ! 

As  to  the  advantage,  and  indeed  the  necessity,  of  a 
liturgy,  I  think  there  cannot  be  two  opinions  among  un 
prejudiced  men.  If  you  had  attended  a  Scotch  church, 
as  I  have  done,  for  ten  years,  you  would  know  what  a 
horrid  thing  it  is  to  see  a  stupid,  vulgar  fellow  entering 
the  pulpit,  and  to  think  that  that  man  is  to  interpret  and 
express  your  deepest  wants  for^  that  day's  worship.  It 
is,  indeed,  a  very  hard  task  for  even  an  able,  a  pious, 
and  a  judicious  man  to  make  new  prayers  each  Sunday, 
suited  to  convey  the  confessions,  thanksgivings,  and  sup 
plications  of  a  congregation  of  his  fellow-men  ;  yet  I 
have  known  this  so  well  and  beautifully  done,  that  for 
one  day  I  did  not  miss  the  liturgy,  dear  to  me  as  it  is. 
But  you  cannot  count  for  certain  upon  each  one  of 
twelve  or  fourteen  hundred  men  being  possessed  of  com 
mon  sense ;  and  when  you  think  of  the  painful  and  re 
volting  consequences  of  allowing  a  blockhead  to  conduct 
public  prayer  at  his  own  discretion,  you  will  feel  what  a 
blessing  it  would  be  if  some  standard  were  put  in  the 
hands  of  the  clergy  that  would  assure  us  of  decency.  It 
is  only  just  to  say  that  the  prayers  one  generally  hears 
in  Scotch  churches  are  wonderfully  respectable.  They 
are  sometimes,  indeed,  rather  sermons  or  lectures  than 
prayers  ;  and  are  spoken  at  the  congregation  rather  than 
to  the  Almighty.  And  the  truth  is,  that  even  in  Scot 
land,  where  every  minister  prepares  his  own  prayers, 
and  where  the  prayers  are  very  frequently  bond  fide  ex 
temporaneous,  there  is  a  sort  of  traditional  liturgy ;  a 
floating  mass  of  stock  phrases  of  prayer  ;  and  each  young 
man  who  goes  into  the  Church  takes  up  the  kind  of 


316  SOME  FURTHER  TALK 

strain  which  he  has  been  accustomed  to  hear  all  his  life, 
and  carries  it  on.  If  you  hear  a  decent,  commonplace, 
rather  stupid  Scotch  minister  pray,  every  separate  sen 
tence  of  the  prayer  would  fall  quite  familiarly  on  your 
ear,  if  you  were  a  Scotchman.  It  is  the  regular  old 
thing,  only  the  component  parts  a  little  shuffled.  Where 
the  preacher  is  a  senseless  and  tasteless  boor,  of  course 
his  prayers  are  in  keeping.  I  have  sometimes  had  an  in 
tense  wish  to  throw  something  at  the  head  of  some  vul 
gar  blockhead  who  was  pouring  forth  a  tide  of  unintelli 
gible  balderdash,  in  the  name  of  a  congregation  of  plain 
country  folk,  who  could  not  understand,  and  still  less 
join  in,  one  syllable  of  the  effusion.  To  show  you  that 
I  am  not  saying  this  without  reason,  I  quote  a  passage 
from  a  review  of  a  work,  entitled  Eutaxia,  or  the  Pres 
byterian  Liturgies,  which  appeared  in  a  Scotch  Church 
periodical  edited  by  one  of  the  most  eminent  of  Scotch 
ministers : — 

"  What  a  contrast  between  these  prayers  of  Calvin  and 
the  ungrammatical,  unprayerful  exhibitions  which  are  some 
times  heard  in  the  pulpit !  It  would  be  a  shame  to  many 
ministers  to  rush  into  the  presence  of  their  earthly  superiors 
as  they  rush  into  the  presence  of  their  God.  The  prayers  of 
many  betray  an  utter  want  of  preparation,  and  even  of  active 
thought  at  the  time  of  their  utterance,  as  is  evident  from  the 
almost  absurd  phrases  which  have  become  stereotyped  forms, 
and  which  are  poured  forth  every  Sabbath  in  our  pulpits. 
We  give  one  instance  which  we  have  no  doubt  all  will  recog 
nize  :  "  We  come  before  Thee,  with  our  hands  on  our 
mouths,  and  our  mouths  in  the  dust,  crying  out,"  &c.,  while 
if  one's  hand  is  either  on  his  mouth,  or  his  mouth  in  the  dust, 
crying  out  is  out  of  the  question,  and  much  more  so  if  both 
happen  at  once.  We  recollect  a  worthy  who  was  in  the 


ABOUT  SCOTCH  AFFAIRS.  317 

habit  of  devoutly  praying  "  that  the  time  might  soon  come 
when  Satan  should  be  sent  far  hence,  even  unto  the  Gen 
tiles  " ;  and  this  is  a  type  of  too  many  of  the  stock  phrases 
which  are  repeated  in  the  sanctuary."  * 

There  is  no  respect  in  which  Scotch  prayers  generally 
are  so  bad  as  in  that  most  important  article,  the  confes 
sion  of  sin.  One  would  say  that  in  such  a  case  the 
simplest  and  most  direct  way  of  acknowledging  unwor- 
thiness  would  be  the  fittest ;  we  do  not  know  anything 
better  than  the  familiar  "We  have  left  undone  those 
things  which  we  ought  to  have  done,  and  we  have  done 
those  things  which  we  ought  not  to  have  done."  But 
some  preachers  appear  to  think  that'  confession  should 
be  set  forth  with  sacred  imagery,  and  accordingly  ex 
press  this  part  of  prayer  in  terms  which  I  believe  con 
vey  no  clear  idea  to  plain  people.  I  have  often  heard 
such  sentences  as  the  following :  — 

"  We  were  planted  as  trees  of  righteousness,  but  we 
have  yielded  the  grapes  of  Sodom,  and  the  clusters  of 
Gomorrah." 

A  still  greater  favorite  is  the  following :  — 

"  We  have  turned  away  from  the  fountain  of  living 
waters ;  and  we  have  hewn  out  to  ourselves  cisterns, 
broken  cisterns,  that  can  hold  no  water." 

My  final  instance  to  show  what  prayer  may  come  to, 
when  intrusted,  without  any  directory,  to  each  individ 
ual  of  a  great  number  of  men,  shall  be  the  beginning  of 
a  prayer  which,  I  was  told  by  a  thoroughly  credible 
friend,  he  himself  heard  delivered  from  a  Scotch  pul 
pit:  — 

"O  God,  Thou  hast  made  the  sun.     O  God,  Thou 

*  Edinburgh  Christian  Magazine,  p.  146,  Augiist,  1856. 


318  SOME   FURTHER  TALK 

hast  made  the  moon.  Thou  hast  made  the  stars.  Thou 
hast  also  made  the  koamits,  whech,  in  their  eccentric 
oarbits  in  the  immensity  of  space,  occasionally  approtch 
so  neer  the  sun,  that  they  are  in  imminent  danger  of 
being  veetrifoyd. " 

I  heartily  wish,  my  dear  editor,  that  you  could  send 
down  to  the  Scotch  Kirk  a  number  of  those  clever, 
accomplished  young  Oxford  and  Cambridge  men  who 
wish  to  devote  themselves  to  clercial  labor,  and  who, 
from  want  of  interest,  will  never  get  more  than  eighty 
pounds  a  year  in  the  English  Church.  We  can  hold 
out  pretty  fair  inducements  to  such ;  and  we  need  them 
sorely.  The  Scotch  Church  furnishes  a  remarkable 
proof  of  the  soundness  of  Sydney  Smith's  views,  that  if 
you  cannot  make  all  the  livings  of  the  Church  prizes,  it 
is  better  to  have  a  proportion  of  prizes  and  many  blanks, 
than  to  reduce  all  benefices  to  a  decent  mediocrity. 
True,  Sydney's  plan  may  not  tend  to  secure  the  happi 
ness  of  the  working  clergy,  but  it  assuredly  tends  to  lead 
a  superior  class  of  men  to  enter  the  Church,  each  man 
hoping  that  he  may  be  so  fortunate  as  to  draw  a  prize. 
I  have  heard  wretched  trash  talked,  to  the  effect  that 
the  right  course  to  get  a  disinterested  and  unworldly 
clergy  is  to  offer  no  temporal  inducements  to  choose  the 
clerical  profession ;  and  when  heritors  resist  a  minister's 
getting  an  increase  of  his  stipend  (each  minister  is 
entitled  to  apply  for  what  is  called  an  augmentation 
every  twenty  years),  they  are  accustomed  to  quote  with 
high  approval  the  dictum  of  some  old  noodle  of  a  judge 
in  past  days,  that  "a  puir  (poor)  church  is  a  pure 
church."  Nothing  can  be  more  absurd.  Cut  down  the 


ABOUT  SCOTCH  AFFAIRS.  319' 

livings  of  any  church  to  what  you  choose,  and  you  will 
have  just  as  many  men  entering  its  service  from  merce 
nary  motives  as  ever.  All  you  will  have  secured  will 
be  that  your  recruits  will  be  men  of  a  lower  class,  to 
whom  a  smaller  provision  is  an  inducement.  Fix  all 
the  livings  of  the  Church  of  England  at  thirty  pounds  a 
year  each,  and  you  will  have  no  lack  of  men  eager  to 
get  them ;  but  they  will  be  thirty  pounds  a  year  men. 

Now,  it  is  a  fact  which  cannot  be  denied,  that 
although  there  are  very  many  exceptions  to  the  state 
ment,  the  majority  of  the  Scotch  clergy  are  drawn  from 
the  lower  ranks  of  society,  and  many  of  them  testify,  by 
their  appearance  and  their  entire  lack  of  that  undefma- 
ble  but  keenly-felt  quality  which  marks  the  gentleman, 
that  they  have  not  in  any  degree  acquired  that  polish 
which  the  humblest  origin  is  no  bar  against  a  man's 
attaining.  As  I-  look  round  this  General  Assembly, 
although  the  effect  on  the  whole  is  good,  and  the  princi 
pal  places,  with  one  or  two  exceptions,  are  filled  by  men 
fitted  to  adorn  any  circle  of  society,  I  yet  am  grieved  to 
see  here  and  there  great  loutish  boors  bursting  out  occa 
sionally  into  horse-laughter,  or  apparently  desirous  of 
putting  their  hands  and  feet  in  their  pockets,  who  never 
ought  to  have  been  in  the  Church,  who  cannot  be  sup 
posed  capable  of  maintaining  the  respect  of  even  their 
humblest  parishioners,  and  whom  the  squire  of  the  par 
ish  would  only  make  unhappy  by  asking  to  his  table 
when  he  had  anything  but  a  second-chop  party  and  en 
tertainment. 

Now,  I  say  it  most  sincerely,  God  forbid  that  I 
should  think  less  of  a  man  of  talent  and  piety,  though  of 
ever  so  humble  origin.  I  must  add,  however,  that  so 


320  SOME  FURTHER  TALK 

far  as  my  own  experience  has  gone,  the  talent  and  piety 
and  practical  usefulness  of  the  Church  are  found  almost 
exclusively  among  its  gentlemen.  And  you  and  I  know 
well  how  much  a  man's  manners  affect  the  estimation  in 
which  the  world  holds  him.  You  don't  like  to  be  told 
of  your  sins  by  a  man  whom  nature  made  for  blacking 
your  boots ;  for  I  don't  hesitate  to  assert  that  almost  all 
these  recruits  from  the  lowest  orders  are  as  deficient  in 
talent  as  they  are  in  social  standing.  I  do  not  like  to 
think  that  the  spiritual  interests  of  the  country  are  to  be 
committed  to  an  inferior  class  of  men ;  and  we  know  that 
Holy  Writ  speaks  with  no  approval  of  ancient  kings 
who  "made  priests  of  the  lowest  of  the  people."  To 
show  you  that  I  am  not  singular  in  this  feeling,  I  quote 
another  passage  from  the  article  already  referred  to :  — 

"  What  can  be  more  disgusting  than  to  go  into  a  church 
where  the  pews  are  filled  with  people  of  refinement,  who  are 
accustomed  everywhere  else  to  order  and  decency,  and  to  see 
in  the  pulpit,  the  centre  of  attraction,  the  cynosure  of  eyes, 
the  minister  of  God,  a  coarse  vulgarian  who  ought  to  have 
remained  in  the  sphere  in  which  he  was  converted  ?  Piety 
and  earnestness  make  up  for  great  defects ;  still,  a  clergy 
man,  whether  his  parishioners  be  coalheavers,  or  the  elite  of 
a  cultivated  city,  should  always  be  a  gentleman  and  a  man 
of  taste."* 

And  now  you  will  be  surprised  to  be  told  that  the 
livings  of  the  Scotch  Church  average  somewhat  more 
than  those  of  the  Church  of  England.  Ay,  cast  in 
your  archbishoprics,  bishoprics,  deaneries,  and  rich  rec 
tories,  then  strike  an  average,  apportioning  an  equal 

*  Edinburgh  Christian  Magazine,  p.  177,  September,  1856.  This 
magazine  is  (avowedly)  edited  by  the  Rev.  Norman  MacLeod,  of 
Glasgow. 


ABOUT  SCOTCH  AFFAIRS.  321 

share  to  each  cure  of  souls  in  England,  and  yet  Scot 
land,  with  very  few  livings  approaching  a  thousand 
a  year,  will  yield  a  larger  annual  share  to  each  of  her 
charges.  The  average  of  the  Kirk  is,  I  am  told,  about 
two  hundred  and  sixty  pounds  a  year,  with  residence. 
And  interest  with  patrons  has  little  to  do  with  a  man's 
advance  here.  A  young  fellow,  with  a  talent  for  popu 
lar  preaching,  may  very  reasonably  expect,  by  the  time 
he  is  seven  or  eight  and  twenty,  to  be  settled  in  a  snug 
manse,  with  an  income  of  three  or  four  hundred  a  year. 
Why  is  it  that  this  does  not  tempt  into  clerical  service 
those  younger  sons  of  gentlemen  who  are  content  to 
pinch  themselves  for  years  as  briefless  barristers,  or  en 
signs  and  lieutenants  tossed  about  the  world  with  the 
chance  of  being  shot,  or  clerks  in  government  offices 
with  an  annual  eighty  pounds  ?  The  answer  must  be, 
that  the  Church  can  hold  out  nothing  further.  A  man 
cannot  get  higher.  The  briefless  barrister  may  be 
chief  justice  of  England ;  the  ensign  may  become  a 
peer  ;  the  counting-house  clerk,  a  millionnaire.  Not  one 
in  ten  thousand  will,  but  one  in  twenty  thousand  must ; 
and  each  hopes  that  he  himself  is  to  be  the  lucky  man. 
Now  this,  I  take  it,  is  one  great  advantage  of  Episco 
pacy.  It  provides  aims  for  honorable  ambition.  It 
holds  out  prizes  which  induce  men  of  first-class  social 
position  to  enter  the  Church.  A  man  of  the  highest 
talent  may  enter  an  episcopal  church  without  feeling 
that  he  is  practising  the  unworldly  self-denial  of  a  Mar- 
tyn.  Between  ourselves,  my  dear  friend,  notwithstand 
ing  all  we  used  to  talk  long  ago  at  Oxford,  I  am  quite 
satisfied  that  a  church  may  be  a  church  though  it  have 
no  bishops  ;  and  notwithstanding  my  Anglican  up-bring- 
H*  u 


322  SOME  FURTHER  TALK 

ing,  I  think  it  my  duty,  living  in  Scotland,  to  maintain 
(so  far  as  I  can)  the  church  of  the  country ;  and  in  the 
Church  of  Scotland  I  shall  be  content  to  die.  I  am  not 
sure,  if  I  were  a  clergyman,  that  I  should  much  like  to 
be  ordered  about  by  some  cross-grained,  crotchety  old 
gentleman,  neither  wiser,  better,  nor  more  learned  than 
myself,  even  if  he  were  my  bishop.  And  yet  I  see 
great  good  in  Episcopacy ;  and  I  see  it  all  the  more  for 
having  resided  these  years  in  Scotland.  First,  a  church 
with  gradations  of  rank  provides  prizes  which  draw  in 
men  of  social  standing ;  and  so  long  as  this  is  a  world 
of  snobs,  even  a  church  will  be  thought  the  more  of  for 
numbering  in  its  ranks  the  sons  of  peers.  And  sec 
ondly,  Episcopacy  provides  clergymen  who  rank  on 
terms  of  equality  with  the  highest  classes  in  the  coun 
try.  I  regard  this  last  as  a  most  important  matter.  If 
a  lord  asks  a  parish  clergyman,  however  eminent  he 
may  be,  —  say  that  it  were  Chalmers  himself,  —  to  his 
house,  why,  the  latent  feeling  on  both  sides  is,  that  the 
peer  is  rather  patronizing  the  parson ;  while  if  a  duke 
entertains  an  archbishop,  the  nobleman  receives  an  honor 
rather  than  confers  one.  And  as  the  clergy  will  always 
be,  to  the  vulgar  mind,  the  embodiment  or  at  least  the 
representatives  of  the  Church,  that  which  improves  or 
depresses  their  social  standing  affects  the  credit  in  which 
the  Church  will  be  commonly  held,  in  a  proportionate 
degree. 

Now,  as  I  have  said,  very  many  Scotch  parsons  are 
of  the  humblest  possible  extraction ;  and  most  of  these 
individuals  have  had  no  opportunity  of  getting  a  little 
polished  up.  They  have  not  the  chance  that  a  man  has 
who  is  going  into  the  Church  of  England.  If  a  man 


ABOUT  SCOTCH  AFFAIRS.  323 

lives  at  Oxford  for  four  or  five  years,  and  has  his  wits 
about  him,  he  cannot  but  pick  up  some  refinement  from 
the  class  with  whom  he  in  some  degree  associates,  and 
from  the  very  air  of  the  place.  But  if  a  man  goes  to 
Glasgow  or  St.  Andrews  a  clodhopper,  a  clodhopper  he 
remains  to  the  end  of  his  college  course.  While  at  the 
University  he  lives  in  a  garret  on  oatmeal;  he  never 
mixes  in  decent  society ;  he  never  sets  foot  in  a  draw 
ing-room  ;  he  is  completely  shied  by  the  small  propor 
tion  of  young  men  of  the  better  ranks  who  are  his 
class-fellows ;  he  comes  out  into  life  a  coarse,  ungainly 
cub,  with  perhaps  a  certain  vulgar  talent  which  gets 
him  a  living  at  last.  Then  he  goes  out  and  drinks  tea 
and  whisky-toddy  with  the  neighboring  drovers  and 
small  farmers ;  he  deals  in  coarse  jests  which  make  one 
long  to  kick  him ;  he  has  an  accurate  knowledge  of  the 
points  of  an  ox  or  pig ;  and  is  much  gratified  when  a 
drunken  grazier  declares  that  "  there  's  no  a  man  goes 
to  Whistle-binkie  market  that  kens  aboot  a  stot  sae 
weel  as  Mr.  Horrid-beast."  He  gains,  for  a  time,  a  cer 
tain  popularity  with  the  lowest  class ;  but  he  drives  off 
the  gentry  of  the  parish  to  the  nearest  Episcopal  chapel. 
I  am  sure  you  will  agree  with  me,  my  friend,  when  I 
say  that  I  regard  it  as  self-evident  that  the  parish  priest 
ought  to  possess  the  bearing,  manners,  and  feelings  of  a 
gentleman.  He  will  be  the  better  fitted  for  doing  his 
duty  well,  even  among  the  poorest.  He  will  be  the 
more  respected;  and  if  a  clergyman  is  not  respected, 
he  is  useless.  The  poorest  bodies  know  thoroughly 
well  when  the  minister  is  jack-fellow-alike,  a  man  who 
may  be  presumed  upon,  and  when  that  will  not  do. 
Nor  does  this  imply  a  grain  of  affected  stiffness,  or  the 


324  SOME  FURTHER  TALK 

very  slightest  lack  of  cordial  kindness  and  sympathy 
upon  the  part  of  the  real  gentleman.  On  the  contrary, 
it  is  the  vulgar  boor  who  will  walk  into  a  decent  labor 
er's  cottage  with  his  hat  on ;  who  will  keep  its  mistress 
standing  while  he  sits;  who  will  rudely  say  that  the 
preparations  for  dinner  which  he  sees  are  far  too  good 
for  a  family  in  such  a  position ;  who  will  abuse  the  poor 
toiling  creature  because  her  little  girl  had  some  cheap 
ribbons  in  her  bonnet  last  Sunday  at  church ;  and  say, 
with  a  coarseness  beyond  the  pigsty,  that  working  peo 
ple,  who  may  soon  need  aid  from  the  parish,  have  no 
business  with  ornament,  but  should  be  thankful  when 
they  can  find  food  to  eat.*  I  know,  indeed,  that  among 
the  heritors,  —  and  every  heritor  with  a  fair  rental  is  by 
courtesy  a  county  gentleman,  —  some  miserable  crea 
tures  may  be  found  who  don't  want  to  see  the  clergy 
man  a  gentleman ;  who  feel  that  in  that  case,  superior 
to  themselves  in  education,  ability,  information,  and 
probably  in  birth,  he  becomes  the  subject  of  a  compari 
son  in  which  they  come  off  second-best.  I  have  heard 
a  retired  tradesman,  who  had  bought  a  property  in  the 
county,  and  been  admitted  to  its  society  because  his 
misplaced  aspirates  made  him  an  amusing  laughing 
stock,  lay  down  the  principle  that  a  clergyman  would 
not  work  if  he  were  made  too  well  off.  I  have  heard 
vulgar-minded,  purse-proud  upstarts,  taken  from  the 
counter,  and  the  oil-and-color  way,  say,  with  reference 
to  a  neighboring  parson,  that  the  Apostle  Paul  did  not 
keep  livery-servants  or  drive  thorough-bred  horses.  I 
should  never  argue  with  any  one  who  talked  in  this 
fashion.  Leave  such  vulgarity  to  itself,  and  cut  the 
*•  All  these  particulars  are  taken  from  life. 


ABOUT  SCOTCH  AFFAIRS.  325 

creature  dead.  But  the  unhappy  thing  is,  that  the 
social  standing  of  the  entire  clerical  order  is  injured  by 
the  underbred  vulgarians  who  are  found  in  the  Church 
here  and  there ;  men  who  cringe  to  the  Pawtron,  truckle 
to  the  laird,  and  sneak  at  the  Heritors'  meeting.  I  re 
member  being  struck  by  a  passage  in  a  speech  made  by 
the  late  Dr.  Chalmers  in  this  Assembly,  in  which  he 
illustrates  admirably  the  effect  of  the  worldly  standing 
of  the  clergy  upon  the  moral  estimation  in  which  they 
will  generally  be  held.  He  says  :  — 

"  It  is  quite  ridiculous  to  say  that  the  worth  of  the  clergy 
will  suffice  to  keep  them  up  in  the  estimation  of  society. 
This  worth  must  be  combined  with  importance.  Give  both 
worth  and  importance  to  the  same  individual,  and  what  are 
the  terms  employed  in  describing  him  ?  '  A  distinguished 
member  of  society,  the  ornament  of  a  most  respectable  pro 
fession,  the  virtuous  companion  of  the  great,  and  a  generous 
consolation  to  all  the  sickness  and  poverty  around  him.' 
These,  Moderator,  appear  to  me  to  be  the  terms  peculiarly 
descriptive  of  the  appropriate  character  of  a  clergyman,  and 
they  serve  to  mark  the  place  which  he  ought  to  occupy ;  but 
take  away  the  importance,  and  leave  only  the  worth,  and 
what  do  you  make  of  him  ?  what  is  the  descriptive  term 
applied  to  him  now  ?  Precisely  the  term  which  I  often  find 
applied  to  many  of  my  brethren,  and  which  galls  me  to  the 
very  bone  every  moment  I  hear  it,  '  a  fine  body ' ;  a  being 
whom  you  may  like,  but  whom  I  defy  you  to  esteem ;  a  mere 
object  of  endearment ;  a  being  whom  the  great  may  at  times 
honor  with  the  condescension  of  a  dinner,  but  whom  they 
will  never  admit  as  a  respectable  addition  to  their  society. 
Now  all  that  I  demand  of  the  Court  of  Tiends  is,  to  be  raised, 
and  that  as  speedily  as  possible,  above  the  imputation  of  being 
'  a  fine  body' ;  that  they  would  add  importance  to  my  worth, 
and  give  splendor  and  efficacy  to  those  exertions  which  have 
for  their  object  the  most  exalted  interests  of  the  species." 


326  ABOUT  SCOTCH  AFFAIRS. 

Capital  sound  sense,  and  accurate  knowledge  of  the 
world  there  ! 

Such,  my  dear  Editor,  are  certain  meditations,  rea 
sonings,  .  facts,  statements,  and  opinions,  which  have 
beguiled  me  from  weariness  (though  they  may  have 
had  quite  a  contrary  effect  on  you)  during  the  less  in 
teresting  business  of  several  Assembly  days.  It  was 
good  in  me  to  think  of  you  (and  perhaps  of  the  intellect 
ual  circle  for  which  you  monthly  cater),  and  to  com 
bine  my  attendance  upon  my  duties  here  with  doing 
something  that  may  amuse  or  inform  an  absent  but  not 
forgotten  friend.  But  now  the  Assembly  is  drawing  to 
its  close  :  it  is  past  eleven  o'clock  on  the  evening  of  the 
1st  of  June,  and  I  must  put  my  note-book  in  my  pocket, 
and  attend  to  the  closing  proceedings.  Then  to-morrow 
morning  I  shall  be  off  homewards  ;  and  O,  how  pleas 
ant  the  rush  from  glaring  pavements,  a  stifling  atmos 
phere,  and  tedious  speeches,  to  the  bright  green  fields 
and  the  thick  leaves  which  I  know  await  me.  My  home 
has  seemed  shadowy  and  far  away  during  these  days  of 
occupation  here ;  but  now  it  is  growing  into  reality 
again,  as  I  think  how  a  few  hours  are  to  take  me  back 
to  it.  I  wonder  how  the  horses  are  ?  I  hope  the  dogs 
are  all  well.  As  for  the  children,  I  hear  of  their  wel 
fare  daily  ;  and  I  am  taking  with  me  a  sufficient  num 
ber  of  squeaking  dogs,  musical  wagons,  trumpets,  and 
drums,  to  distract  the  nerves  of  a  literary  man  for 
weeks  to  come.  When  shall  we  see  you  again  ?  It 
cannot  be  too  soon  now. 

Always  }rour  sincere  friend, 

C.  A.  MACDONALD. 


CHAPTER    XVII. 


FROM  SATURDAY  TO  MONDAY. 

HERE  are  great  people  who  have  seen  so 
much,  that  they  are  not  surprised  by  any 
thing.  There  are  silly  people  who  have  not 
seen  very  much,  but  who  think  it  a  fine 
thing  to  pretend  that  they  are  not  surprised  by  anything. 
As  for  the  present  writer,  he  has  seen  so  little  that  he 
feels  it  very  strange  to  find  himself  here ;  and  he  has 
not  the  least  desire  to  pretend  that  he  does  not  feel  it  so. 
This  morning  the  writer  awoke  in  a  bare  little  cham 
ber,  curtainless  and  carpetless,  in  that  great  hotel  at 
Lucerne  in  Switzerland,  which  is  called  the  Schweizer 
Hof.  And  having  had  breakfast  in  a  very  large  and 
showy  dining-room,  along  with  two  travelling  com 
panions,  he  is  now  standing  at  a  window  of  that  apart 
ment,  and  looking  out.  Just  in  front,  there  spreads  the 
green  lake  of  Lucerne.  Away  to  the  left,  is  the  Rigi ; 
and  to  the  right,  beyond  the  lake,  the  lofty  Pilatus,  in 
a  tarn  on  whose  summit  tradition  says  the  banished 
governor  of  Judea  drowned  himself,  stricken  by  con 
science  for  his  unjust  condemnation  of  Christ.  The 
town  stands  at  this  end  of  the  lake  ;  divided  into  two 


328  FROM  SATURDAY  TO  MONDAY. 

parts  by  the  river  Reuss,  which  here  flows  out  of  the 
lake  in  a  swift  green  stream,  running  with  almost  the 
speed  of  a  torrent.  There  is  a  glare  of  light  and  heat 
everywhere  in  the  town,  most  of  all  on  the  broad  level 
piece  of  ground  which  at  this  point  spreads  between  the 
lake  and  several  hotels.  On  a  rising  ground,  a  few 
hundred  yards  off,  rising  steeply  from  the  lake,  stands 
the  Roman  Catholic  cathedral,  a  somewhat  shabby 
building,  with  two  lofty  slender  spires  at  its  west  end. 
There  are  cloisters  round  it ;  and  from  several  openings 
in  the  wall,  on  the  side  towards  the  lake,  you  have 
delightful  peeps  of  the  green  water  below,  and  of  snow 
capped  hills  beyond.  If  you  enter  that  cathedral  at 
almost  any  time,  you  will  find  its  plain  interior  filled 
by  a  large  congregation ;  and  you  will  hear  part  of  the 
service  boisterously  roared  out  by  priests  of  unprepos 
sessing  aspect.  Why  do  the  Roman  priests  so  furiously 
bellow  ? 

This  is  a  Saturday  morning  in  August,  —  a  beautiful 
bright  morning. 

There  is  no  part  of  the  week  that  is  so  well  remem 
bered  by  many  people  as  the  period  from  Saturday  to 
Monday,  including  both  the  former  and  the  latter 
days.  That  season  of  time  has  a  character  of  its  own ; 
and  many  pleasant  visits  and  expeditions  have  been 
comprised  within  it.  Every  one  can  sympathize  with 
the  poet  Prior,  and  can  understand  the  picture  he  calls 
up,  when  he  describes  himself  as  "  in  a  little  Dutch 
chaise  on  a  Saturday  night ;  on  his  left  hand  his  Horace, 
and  a  friend  on  his  right,"  going  out  to  the  country  to 
stay  till  Monday  with  the  friend  so  situated.  I  fear, 
indeed,  that  Prior  would  not  go  to  church  on  the  Sun- 


FROM  SATURDAY  TO  MONDAY.       329 

clay,  which  I  can  only  regret.  But  I  am  going  to 
spend  this  time  in  a  way  as  different  as  may  be  from 
that  in  which  I  am  accustomed  to  spend  it,  or  in  which 
I  ever  spent  it  before. 

When  the  writer  arises  on  common  Saturdays,  the 
thing  he  has  in  prospect  is  several  quiet  hours  spent  in 
going  over  the  sermons  he  has  to  preach  on  the  follow 
ing  day.  I  suppose  that  most  clergymen  who  do  their 
work  as  well  as  they  can,  do  on  Saturday  morning  after 
breakfast  walk  into  their  study,  and  sit  down  in  that 
still  retreat  to  work.  And  if,  on  other  days,  you  are 
thinking  all  the  while  you  are  at  work  there  of  ten 
sick  people  you  have  to  see,  and  of  a  host  of  other 
matters  that  must  be  attended  to  out  of  doors,  you  will 
much  enjoy  the  affluent  sense  of  abundant  time  for 
thinking,  which  you  will  have  if  you  make  it  a  rule 
that  on  Saturdays  you  shall  do  no  pastoral  nor  other 
parochial  work.  Then  you  ought  to  take  a  long  walk 
in  the  afternoon, 'and  give  the  evening  to  entire  rest, 
refreshing  your  mind  by  some  light,  cheerful  reading. 

This  advice,  however,  need  not  be  prolonged ;  as  it 
is  addressed  to  a  limited  order  of  men,  and  to-  men  who 
are  not  likely  to  take  it.  And  to-day,  instead  of  sitting 
down  to  work,  there  is  something  quite  different  to  be 
done. 

For  it  is  time  to  cease  looking  out  of  the  window  at 
the  Schweizer  Hof,  and  to  walk  the  short  distance  to  the 
spot  where  a  little  steamer  is  preparing  to  start.  The 
baggage  of  the  three  travellers  is  contained  in  three 
black  leather  bags  of  modest  size.  The  steamer  de 
parts,  and  leaves  the  town  behind ;  but  to-day,  instead ' 
of  sailing  the  length  of  the  lake,  to  where  it  ends  amid 


330  FROM  SATURDAY  TO  MONDAY. 

the  wilds  of  Uri,  we  turn  to  the  right  hand  into  a  re 
tired  bay,  which  gradually  shallows,  till  the  depth  of 
water  becomes  very  small.  Pilatus  is  on  the  right, 
and  the  place  where  in  former  days  there  used  to  be  the 
Slide  of  Alpnach.  The  sides  of  Pilatus  are  covered 
with  great  forests,  the  timber  of  which  would  be  of 
great  use  if  it  could  be  readily  got  hold  of.  And  the 
Slide  was  made  for  the  purpose  of  bringing  down  great 
trees  from  spots  from  which  any  ordinary  conveyance 
would  be  impossible.  So  a  trough  of  wood  was  formed, 
eight  miles  in  length,  beginning  high  up  the  mountain, 
and  ending  at  the  lake.  It  was  six  feet  wide,  and  four 
feet  deep  :  a  stream  of  water  was  made  to  flow  through 
it,  to  lessen  friction.  It  wound  about  to  suit  the  ground, 
and  was  carried,  bridge-like,  over  three  deep  ravines. 
The  trees  intended  to  be  sent  down  by  it  were  stripped 
of  bark  and  branches,  and  then  lauilched  away.  The 
biggest  tree  did  the  eight  miles  in  six  minutes,  tearing 
down  with  a  noise  like  thunder,  an  avalanche  of  wood. 
Sometimes  a  tree  leapt  out  of  the  slide,  in  mid  career, 
and  was  instantly  smashed  to  atoms. 

The  steamer  stops  at  a  rude  little  wharf,  near  which 
a  great  lumbering  diligence  is  waiting,  very  clumsy,  but 
comfortable.  Six  horses  draw  it,  whose  harness,  made 
mainly  of  rope,  is  covered  with  bells,  that  keep  up  a 
ceaseless  tinkle  as  we  go.  In  Britain,  we  wish  a  car 
riage  to  run  as  quietly  as  possible  ;  in  Switzerland,  they 
like  a  good  deal  of  noise.  We  go  slowly  on,  into  the 
Canton  of  Unterwalden,  by  the  little  town  of  Sarnen, 
along  a  valley  richly  wooded.  For  a  while,  the  road  is 
level,  then  we  begin  to  climb.  And  now,  as  is  usual 
with  British  travellers,  we  get  out  and  walk  on,  leaving 


FROM  SATURDAY  TO  MONDAY.       331 

* 

the  diligence  to  follow.  We  are  entering  the  Brunig 
Pass.  In  former  days,  it  could  be  traversed  only  on 
foot  or  on  mules ;  now  a  carriage  road  has  been  made, 
a  marvel  of  skilful  engineering.  "We  walk  up  a  long 
steep  ascent.  On  the  left  hand,  far  below,  are  little  green 
lakes,  and  scattered  chalets ;  on  the  right,  rude  hills. 
Every  here  and  there  a  little  stream  from  the  hills 
crosses  the  road.  It  is  now  a  mere  trickling  thread  of 
water ;  but  acres  on  either  side  of  it,  covered  with  huge 
stones,  testify  what  a  raging  torrent  it  must  be  in  winter. 
So  we  go  on,  till  we  reach  a  spot  where  we  are  to  wit 
ness  a  piece  of  ingenuity  combined  with  bad  taste.  Turn 
out  of  the  highway  by  a  little  path  to  the  right,  and  you 
come  in  two  hundred  yards  to  a  sawmill,  driven  by  an 
impetuous  little  stream.  Where  does  the  stream  come 
from  ?  It  seems  to  issue  out  of  the  rocky  wall,  which  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  above  the  sawmill  here  crosses  the  lit 
tle  upland  valley.  You  follow  the  stream  towards  its 
source.  You  reach  the  rocky  wall.  And  there,  sure 
enough,  violently  rushing  out  through  a  low-browed  dark 
tunnel,  which  it  quite  fills,  you  see  the  origin  of  the 
stream.  What  is  on  the  other  side  of  the  rocky  wall  ? 

Why,  there  is  a  considerable  lake,  which  was  once  a 
great  deal  bigger.  The  Lake  of  Lungern  was  once  a 
beautiful  sheet  of  water,  with  fine  wood  coming  down  to 
its  margin.  But  the  people  of  the  valley  thought  that, 
by  partially  draining  the  lake,  they  might  get  some  hun 
dreds  of  acres  of  valuable  land,  and  all  consideration  of 
the  picturesque  had  to  give  way.  The  tunnel  we  have 
seen  lowered  the  water  in  the  lake  by  a  hundred  and 
twenty  feet,  and  diminished  its  size  to  half.  With  great 
labor,  the  work  of  nineteen  thousand  days  given  by  the 


332  FROM  SATURDAY  TO  MONDAY. 

4 

peasants,  the  tunnel  was  made,  beginning  at  its  lower 
end,  through  the  rocky  ridge,  to  within  six  feet  of  the 
water  at  the  end  of  the  lake.  These  six  feet  of  friable 
rock  were  blown  up  with  gunpowder,  fired  by  three  dar 
ing  men  who  instantly  fled ;  and  in  a  few  minutes  a  black 
stream  of  mud  and  water  appeared  at  the  lower  end  of 
the  tunnel.  The  traveller,  returning  by  the  sawmill  to 
the  road,  goes  on  till  he  reaches  the  village,  whence  you 
may  see  a  bare,  ugly  tract  of  five  hundred  acres,  dotted 
with  wooden  chalets,  gained  by  spoiling  the  lake. 

Passing  through  the  village,  you  climb  on  and  on ; 
the  diligence  makes  no  sign  of  overtaking  you.  You 
reach  the  summit  at  last,  3,600  feet  above  the  sea; 
whence  you  have  a  grand  view  of  the  vale  of  Hasli. 
Those  tremendous  snowy  peaks  beyond  are  the  peaks 
of  the  Wetterhorn,  one  of  the  grandest  of  the  Alps. 
All  this  way  the  road  has  been  very  lonely,  but  always 
richly  wooded.  Now  you  begin  to  go  down.  The  road 
winds  along  the  side  of  the  mountain,  cut  out  of  the 
rock.  In  some  places  it  is  a  mere  notch,  with  great 
masses  of  rock  hanging  over  far  beyond  its  outer  edge. 
And  so,  broken  by  a  pause  for  some  bread  and  wine  at 
a  little  wayside  inn,  the  day  goes  on  towards  evening. 

All  this  while,  one  is  trying  to  feel  that  it  is  Satur 
day,  the  familiar  day  one  knows  at  home ;  for  some 
how  it  seems  quite  different.  And  in  this  strange  coun 
try,  where  you  are  a  foreigner,  you  feel  yourself  quite 
a  different  person  from  what  you  used  to  be  at  home. 
No  doubt,  by  having  two  travelling  companions  from 
Britain,  you  keep  a  little  of  the  British  atmosphere 
about  you.  If  you  were  walking  down  now  into  Hasli 
all  alone,  you  would  be  much  more  keenly  aware  of 


FKOM  SATUKDAY  TO  MONDAY.  333 

the  genius  of  the  place.  All  your  life  and  your  interests 
at  home  would  grow  quite  shadowy  and  unreal.  But 
this  is  one  thing  that  makes  a  holiday  season  in  a  for 
eign  country  deliver  you  so  thoroughly  from  your  home 
burden  of  care  and  labor.  How  very  lightly  the  charge 
of  one's  parish  rests  upon  one  when  the  parish  is  a 
thousand  miles  away!  The  thing  which  at  home  is 
always  pressing  on  you  so  heavily,  grows  light,  at  that 
distance,  as  one  of  those  colored  air-balls  of  India- 
rubber. 

And  now,  as  the  light  is  fading  somewhat,  the  great 
diligence,  running  swiftly  down  the  hill,  and  zigzagging 
round  perilous  corners,  with  little  exertion  of  the  six 
plump  horses,  but  with  a  tremendous  jingling  of  their 
bells,  overtakes  us,  and  for  a  mile  or  two  you  may  en 
joy  a  pleasant  rest  after  the  long  walk.  We  stop  at 
a  place  where  a  roofed  wooden  bridge  crosses  the  river, 
turning  sharp  off  to  the  left.  Here  we  leave  the  big 
diligence,  and  climb  to  the  top  of  a  lesser  one  which  is 
waiting,  a  vast  height.  And  now,  in  the  growing  dark 
ness,  we  proceed  slowly  up  the  valley,  following  the 
course  of  the  river  Aar.  On  the  right  hand,  huge  preci 
pices  close  in  the  valley,  from  which  every  now  and 
then  a  streak  of  white  foam,  hundreds  of  feet  in  height, 
shows  you  a  waterfall.  It  is  perfectly  silent,  though 
these  seem  so  near ;  they  are  much  farther  off  than  you 
are  aware.  On  and  on,  up  the  river,  till  you  can  see 
lights  ahead,  and  you  jolt  along  a  very  roughly-paved 
street,  where  in  the  darkness  you  see  picturesque  wooden 
houses  on  either  hand.  This  is  Meyringen,  one  of  the 
most  thorough  and  beautiful  Swiss  villages  to  be  found 
in  Switzerland.  What  an  odd  Saturday  evening  this 


334  FROM  SATURDAY  TO  MONDAY. 

seems !  Our  old  ways  of  thinking  and  feeling  are  quite 
dislocated.  We  stop  at  the  door  of  a  large  hotel,  built 
of  wood.  Everything  in  it  seems  of  wood,  except  the 
stone  staircase.  It  is  eight  o'clock  in  the  evening,  —  quite 
dark ;  they  have  not  our  long  beautiful  twilights  there. 
And  now  we  have  dinner.  Then  we  inspect  a  room 
filled  with  carved  work  in  wood  which  is  for  sale,  and 
select  some  little  things  which  will  pleasantly  remind  us 
of  this  place  and  time  when  both  are  far  away.  Finally, 
before  ten  o'clock,  we  climb  the  long  stair,  each  to  his 
little  bare  chamber,  with  many  thoughts  of  those  at 
home,  and  trying  unsuccessfully  to  feel  that  this  is 
Saturday  night. 

But  the  glory  and  beauty  of  Meyringen  appeared  the 
next  morning,  —  one  of  the  sunniest,  calmest,  and  bright 
est  Sundays  that  ever  shone  since  the  creation.  You  go 
forth  from  the  hotel,  and  walk  down  the  street,  with  the 
most  picturesque  wooden  houses  on  either  hand,  with 
their  projecting  galleries  and  great  overhanging  eaves. 
Above,  there  is  the  brightest  blue  sky,  and  all  round, 
snowy  peaks,  dazzling  white,  rising  into  the  deep  blue. 
Walk  on  till  you  are  clear  of  the  village,  and  fields  of 
coarse  grass  spread  round  you ;  for  you  will  not  find 
there  the  soft  green  turf  of  Britain,  but  a  rough,  harsh 
grass,  alive  with  crickets  and  grasshoppers.  We  have 
some  compensation  for  our  uncertain  climate  and  abun 
dant  rain.  Yet,  amid  that  scenery  so  sublime,  still,  and 
bright,  you  do  not  miss  anything  that  could  be  desired. 
And  now,  on  the  silent  Sunday  morning,  I  have  no 
doubt  that,  of  several  men  whom  I  saw,  who  though 
arrayed  in  mountain  dress  each  wore  a  white  neckcloth, 
each  one  was  thinking  of  his  own  church  many '"hundreds 


FROM  SATURDAY  TO  MONDAY.  335 

of  miles  off,  and  hoping  and  asking  that  all  might  go 
well  there  that  day. 

All  round  Meyringen  there  stand  those  snowy  Alps. 
Let  the  small  critic  understand  that  we  all  know  that 
an  alp"  does  not  strictly  mean  a  mountain,  but  a  pasture 
high  in  the  mountains.  But  in  Britain,  Alps  mean 
mountains,  and  nothing  else.  And  all  round  are  those 
white  peaks,  save  in  the  narrow  opening  where  the  Aar 
comes  down  from  above,  and  where  it  rolls  away  below. 
From  great  precipices  on  the  left  hand  as  you  look  up 
the  valley,  streams  descend  in  foamy  falls;  and  one 
among  these  has  sometimes  brought  down  in  its  flood 
such  masses  of  mud  and  gravel  as  served  to  overspread 
half  the  valley.  Turn  up  this  little  street,  at  whose  end 
you  can  see  the  church,  which  is  a  Protestant  one. 
Eighteen  feet  from  the -pavement  there  is  a  line  drawn 
on  the  inside  walls,  showing  the  height  to  which  the 
church  was  once  filled  with  mud  by  an  overflow  of  that 
torrent.  Service  is  going  on.  We  quietly  enter  and 
steal  to  a  seat  by  the  door.  A  clergyman,  in  very  ugly 
robes,  is  standing  in  the  pulpit,  which  looks  diagonally 
across  the  plain  interior.  He  is  reading  his  sermon  in  a 
rather  sleepy  way.  His  robe  is  of  blue,  and  a  great 
white  collar,  turned  over,  is  round  his  neck.  Here  is 
the  best  place  to  see  a  whole  congregation,  men  and 
women,  in  their  national  dress.  The  men  sit  on  one 
side  of  the  church  and  the  women  on  the  other.  Swiss 
wromen  are  for  the  most  part  far  from  pretty.  They 
wear  here  a  black  bodice,  with  white  sleeves  starched 
till  they  seem  as  stiff  as  boards,  a  yellow  petticoat,  and 
a  little  black  hat.  The  church  was  well  filled,  and  the 
people  seemed  to  listen  very  attentively  to  their  pastor's 
words. 


336  FKOM  SATURDAY  TO  MONDAY. 

But,  for  one  tiling,  I  do  not  understand  them,  for  they 
are  expressed  in  German;  and  for  another  thing,  I  am 
going  to  worship  elsewhere,  so  I  slip  quietly  away.  Just 
at  the  gate  through  which  you  pass  into  the  churchyard, 
there  is  a  shabby  little  building  which  I  took  for  a  school. 
No,  it  is  the  Little  Church  ;  and  here,  during  the  sum 
mer  and  autumn,  you  may  join  in  the  service  of  the 
Church  of  England.  A  succession  of  clergymen  come 
for  a  few  weeks  each.  A  little  before  the  hour  of  wor 
ship  we  enter  the  building.  It  is  just  like  a  very  shabby 
Scotch  parish  school.  Forms  without  backs  occupy  the 
floor ;  at  one  corner  there  is  an  odd  little  enclosure 
which  serves  as  a  reading-desk  and  a  pulpit ;  and  a  little 
way  off  there  is  placed  a  very  small  table,  which  is  to 
day  covered  with  white,  and  bears  the  elements  of  the 
Communion.  As  the  congregation  assembles,  five-and- 
twenty  persons,  the  clergyman  puts  on  his  surplice,  and 
entering  the  little  desk  begins  the  service.  I  cannot  but 
admire  the  determination  this  young  minister  shows, 
even  in  that  shabby  place,  to  make  the  worship  of  God 
as  decorous  as  may  be.  Although  there  was  no  organ, 
there  was  quite  a  musical  service ;  even  the  Psalms  being 
chanted  remarkably  well.  Five  or  six  young  English 
women  acted  as  a  choir.  The  lessons  were  read  by  an 
old  gentleman  standing  by  the  little  communion  table ; 
but  a  second  surplice  was  not  forthcoming,  and  he  was 
devoid  of  any  robe.  The  sermon  was  a  very  decent 
one ;  not  eloquent  nor  striking,  but  plain  and  earnest. 
I  should  have  liked  it  better  if  the  clergyman  had 
prayed,  before  beginning  it,  in  the  words  of  one  of  the 
usual  collects.  But  he  simply  prefaced  his  discourse  by 
the  words,  "  In  the  name  of  the  Father  and  of  the  Sou 


FROM   SATURDAY  TO   MONDAY.  337 

and  of  the  Holy  Ghost ; "  and  by  that  exceedingly  silly 
shibboleth,  conveyed  to  me  his  adherence  to  a  decaying 
party,  which  assuredly  does  not  consist  of  the  wisest  or 
ablest  of  the  Anglican  clergy.  There  are,  of  course, 
two  or  three  grand  exceptions ;  but  there  is  something 
fatuous  in  the  parade  of  going  as  near  Rome  as  may  be, 
which  some  empty-headed  youths  exhibit.  Let  me  add, 
that  in  the  evening  I  went  to  service  again.  And  now 
the  sermon  was  so  terribly  bad,  so  weak  and  silly,  that  I 
found  it  hard  to  understand  how  any  man  who  had 
brains  to  write  the  former  discourse  could  possibly  have 
produced  it.  Yet  the  text  was  one  of  the  noblest  in 
Holy  Scripture. 

After  the  forenoon  service,  we  walk  along  a  great 
wall,  built  to  defend  the  valley  from  floods,  towards  the 
heights  on  the  left  hand,  looking  up  the  valley ;  and  in 
the  hot  afternoon  toil  slowly  up  and  up,  till  Meyringen  is 
left  far  below.  What  is  that  distant  sound  ?  Well,  it 
is  that  of  rifle-shooting ;  for  the  men  of  Hasli  think 
Sunday  afternoon  the  best  time  for  practice.  Let  me 
confess  that  the  perpetual  reports  broke  in  very  sadly 
on  the  silence  of  the  Holy  Day.  Yet  there  never  was 
a  nobler  temple  than  that  on  which  you  looked,  sitting 
down  on  a  rock  and  gazing  at  the  valley  far  below,  and 
the  snowy  Alps  beyond.  You  could  not  but  think  of  the 
words,  chanted  in  that  morning  service,  "  The  strength 
of  the  hills  is  His  also " !  And  sitting  here,  can  one 
forget  that  at  this  hour  the  text  is  being  read  out  in  the 
church  far  away ;  can  one  help  shutting  out  the  Alps  for 
a  little,  and  asking  that  the  Blessed  Spirit  may  carry 
the  words  that  are  to  be  spoken  to  many  hearts,  for 
warning,  counsel,  and  comfort?  It  is  quite  true,  that 
15  v 


338  FROM  SATURDAY  TO  MONDAY. 

when  at  a  distance  of  hundreds  of  miles,  your  home 
interests  grow  misty  and  unsubstantial ;  but  it  is  likewise 
true  that  at  such  an  hour  as  this  they  press  themselves 
on  one  with  a  wonderful  clearness  and  force.  My  friend 
Smith  told  me  that  in  two  hours'  lonely  walking  under 
Mont  Blanc,  on  a  bright,  clear  autumn  day,  he  felt  more 
worried  by  some  little  perplexity  which  soon  cleared 
itself  up,  than  at  any  other  time  in  his  life.  And  sitting 
down  on  the  edge  of  a  glacier,  whence  a  stream  broke 
away  in  thunder,  with  the  Monarch  of  Mountains  look 
ing  down,  all  he  could  think  of  was  that  wretched  little 
vexation. 

The  Sunday  dinner  hour  at  the  Sauvage  at  Meyringen 
is  four ;  so  let  us  slowly  descend  from  this  height.  A 
large  party  dines,  chiefly  English.  The  main  character 
istic  of  dinner  was  the  fish  called  lotte,  which  is  caught 
in  the  river  near.  There  was  a  certain  quietness  be 
coming  the  day ;  and  it  was  pleasant  to  remark  that  the 
greater  number  of  our  countrymen  seemed  to  make 
Sunday  a  day  of  rest.  And  indeed  it  is  inexpressibly 
pleasant,  after  the  fatigue  and  hurry  which  attend 
travelling  rapidly  on  through  grand  scenery,  to  have  an 
occasional  day  on  which  to  repose.  And  going  to 
church,  with  a  little  congregation  of  one's  countrymen 
and  countrywomen,  to  join  in  the  familiar  service  in  a 
trange  land,  one  felt  something  of  that  glow  which 
came  into  St.  Paul's  heart,  when  after  his  voyage  he 
was  cheered  by  the  sight  of  Christian  friends,  and 
which  made  him  "  thank  God  and  take  courage." 

Then  to  the  evening  service,  when  the  congregation 
was  less,  and  the  sermon  so  extremely  bad.  The  setting 
sun  was  casting  a  rosy  color  upon  the  snowy  peaks,  as 


FROM  SATURDAY  TO  MONDAY.  339 

we  returned  to  the  only  home  one  had  there.  And  in 
deed  Sunday  is  the  worst  day  at  an  inn.  There  is  a 
strongly  felt  inconsistency  between  the  associations  of 
the  day,  especially  if  you  live  in  Scotland,  and  the  whole 
look  of  the  place.  And  sitting  in  a  verandah  behind 
the  Sauvage,  with  the  fragrance  of  the  trees  in  the  twi 
light  coming  up  from  the  garden  below,  and  looking 
across  to  the  Falls  of  the  Reichenbach  on  the  other  side 
of  the  valley,  it  was  worrying  to  think  of  the  weak 
sermon  we  had  just  heard,  where  one  had  hoped  for 
that  which  might  cheer  and  comfort  and  direct.  On 
another  day,  in  a  church  in  a  grander  scene  than  even 
this,  I  sat  beside  a  certain  great  preacher  while  a  poor 
sermon  was  being  preached  with  much  attempt  at  ora 
torical  effect,  and  thought  how  different  it  would  have 
been  had  that  man  occupied  the  pulpit.  Perhaps  he 
thought  so  too,  though  he  did  not  say  so.  But  indeed, 
arrayed  in  garments  of  gray,  and  with  a  wideawa,ke  hat 
lying  beside  him,  that  eminent  clergyman  was  like  a 
locomotive  engine  when  the  steam  is  not  up.  He  could 
not  have  preached  then  ;  at  least,  not  without  two  hours 
of  previous  thought.  Before  the  best  railway  engine 
can  dash  away  with  its  burden,  you  must  fill  its  boiler 
with  water,  and  kindle  its  fire.  And  when  you  may  see 
that  clergyman  ascend  his  pulpit  in  decorous  canonicals 
on  a  Sunday,  charged  with  his  subject,  with  every  nerve 
tense,  and  with  the  most  earnest  purpose  on  his  rather 
frightened  face,  to  deliver  his  message  to  many  hundreds 
of  immortal  beings  ;  if  you  had  previously  seen  the 
easy  figure  in  the  light-gray  suit  sitting  in  a  pew  at 
Chamouni,  you  would  discern  a  like  difference  to  that 
between  the  engine  standing  cold  and  powerless  in  the 


340  FROM  SATURDAY  TO  MONDAY. 

shed,  and  the  engine  coming  slowly  up  to  the  platform, 
with  the  compressed  strength  of  a  thousand  horses 
fretting  for  escape  or  employment,  to  take  away  the 
express  train. 

To-morrow  morning  we  have  to  be  up  at  half-past 
four  ;  so  let  us  go  to  bed.  First,  let  us  have  a  look  at 
the  quiet  street,  indistinct  in  the  twilight,  and  at  the 
outline  of  encircling  hills. 

There  are  places  in  Switzerland  where  you  do  not 
sleep  so  well  as  might  be  desired.  A  host  of  wretched 
little  enemies  scarify  your  skin,  and  drive  sleep  from  your 
eyes.  The  Sauvage  at  Meyringen  is  not  one  of  these 
places.  It  is  a  thoroughly  clean  and  respectable  house. 
Yet  for  the  guidance  of  tourists  who  may  know  even 
less  than  the  writer  (which  is  barely  conceivable),  let 
it  be  said  that  there  is  an  effectual  means  of  keeping 
such  hostile  troops  away.  Procure  a  quantity  of  cam 
phor.  Wear  some  of  it  in  a  bag  about  you,  —  a  very 
little  bag,  —  and  even  though  you  sit  next  a  disgust 
ing,  infragrant,  unwashed  person  in  a  diligence,  nothing 
will  assail  you.  And  at  night  rub  a  little  of  that  mate 
rial  into  powder  between  your  palms,  and  sprinkle  it 
over  your  bed,  having  turned  back  the  bed-clothes. 
Do  that,  and  you  are  safe.  If  you  rub  yourself  over 
with  camphor  besides,  you  are  secure  as  though  wrapped 
in  triple  brass.  You  have  made  yourself  an  offensive 
object  to  the  aesthetic  sensibilities  of  fleas,  and  they  will 
reject  you  with  contempt.  They  will  do  this,  even 
though,  uncamphored,  you  might  be  (in  the  South  Sea 
Island  sense)  a  remarkably  good  man.  You  remember 
how  an  Englishman  once  spoke  to  a  chief  of  a  tribe  out 
there.  He  spoke  of  a  certain  zealous  missionary.  "  Ah, 


FROM  SATURDAY  TO  MONDAY.  341 

he  was  a  very  good  man,  a  very  good  man,"  said  the 
Englishman,  truly  and  heartily.  u  Yes,"  said  the  chief, 
not  so  warmly  ;  "  him  was  a  good  man,  but  him  was 
very  tough  !  "  The  chief  spoke  with  the  air  of  one  who 
says  critically,  "  The  venison  at  Smith's  was  not  so 
good  as  usual  last  night."  And  the  Englishman  for 
bore  to  enquire  as  to  the  data  on  which,  the  chief  pro 
nounced  his  judgment.  No  doubt  he  had  experimental 
knowledge  on  that  subject. 

It  is  a  great  deal  easier  to  get  up  in  the  dark  at  half 
past  four  in  the  morning  in  Switzerland  than  it  is  any 
where  in  Britain.  There  is  something  so  bracing  and 
exhilarating  in  the  mountain  air,  that  you  are  easily 
equal  to  exertion  which  would  knock  you  up  elsewhere. 
Men  who  at  home  could  not  walk  five  or  six  miles 
without  fatigue,  walk  their  thirty  miles  over  a  Pass 
without  difficulty;  come  in  to  dinner  with  a  good  appe 
tite  ;  and  after  dinner,  without  the  least  of  that  feeling 
of  stiffness  which  commonly  follows  any  unusual  exer 
tion,  are  out  of  doors  again,  sauntering  in  the  twilight, 
or  visiting  some  sight  that  is  within  easy  reach.  Yes 
terday  was  a  resting  day  with  us,  so  to-day  we  had 
breakfast  a  little  after  five ;  and  then,  the  three  black 
leather  bags  being  disposed  on  a  black  horse,  that 
scrambled  like  a  cat  over  ground  that  would  have 
ruined  an  English  steed's  knees  in  the  first  quarter 
of  a  mile,  we  set  off  at  six  o'clock  to  cross  the  Pass 
of  the  Great  Scheideck  to  Grindelwald. 

First,  along  the  road  up  the  valley  for  a  mile  or  so ; 
then  turn  to  the  right,  and  begin  to  climb  the  mountain 
which  on  that  side  walls  the  valley  in.  The  ascent  is 
very  steep,  and  the  path  consists  of  smooth  and  slippery 


342  FROM  SATURDAY  TO  MONDAY. 

pieces  of  rock.  You  soon  come  to  understand  the  wis 
dom  of  your  guide,  who  requires  you  to  walk  at  a  very 
slow  pace.  That  is  your  only  chance,  if  you  are  to 
climb  such  ways  for  several  successive  hours.  The 
inexperienced  traveller  pushes  on  at  a  rapid  pace,  and 
speedily  is  quite  exhausted  After  a  little  climbing, 
you  may  turn  to  the  right,  where  you  will  see  the  tor 
rent  of  the  Reichenbach  go  down  nearly  two  thousand 
feet  in  a  succession  of  rapids  and  falls,  hurrying  to  the 
Aar  in  the  valley  below.  On,  higher  and  higher,  till 
you  see  the  huge  snowy  mass  of  the  Wetterhorn  far 
before  you  on  the  left,  and  you  enter  a  little  plain  of 
bright  green  grass,  dotted  with  many  picturesque 
wooden  chalets.  On,  higher  and  higher,  till  you  stop 
to  rest  and  have  something  to  eat  at  the  baths  of  Rosen- 
laui,  a  pretty  inn  near  a  rock  where  the  Reichenbach 
comes  roaring  out  of  a  cleft.  In  a  large  room  here,  yon 
will  be  tempted  to  buy  specimens  of  wood-carving,  very 
beautifully  done.  Having  rested,  you  determine  to 
make  a  little  deviation  from  your  way.  Twenty  min 
utes'  stiff  pulling  up  the  steep  hillside,  over  a  very 
rough  path  to  the  left,  and  you  cross  a  bridge  that  spans 
a  fissure  in  the  rock  two  hundred  feet  deep,  where  a 
little  stream  foams  along.  Now  you  stand  beside  the 
glacier  of  Rosenlaui,  not  large,  but  beautifully  pure. 
A  cave  has  been  cut  out  for  many  yards  into  the  beau 
tiful  blue  ice,  and  into  it  you  go.  It  is  a  singular  place 
in  which  to  find  yourself,  that  cave,  or  rather  tunnel, 
in  the  solid  ice.  The  air  is  cold,  the  floor  is « some  what 
wet ;  a  soft  light  comes  through  the  ice  from  without. 
But  there  is  no  time  to  linger  unduly,  and  we  return 
down  the  rough  slope  to  the  spot,  near  the  inn,  where 


FROM  SATURDAY  TO  MONDAY.  343 

the  guide  and  packhorse  are  waiting.  Now,  upwards 
again,  by  a  very  muddy  path  through  a  long  wood  of 
pines.  But  gradually  the  pines  cease,  and  the  ground 
grows  bare,  till  you  enter  on  a  tract  where  the  snow  lies 
some  inches  deep.  Parched  as  are  your  hands  and  your 
tongue,  there  is  a  great  temptation  to  refresh  both  with 
handfuls  of  that  snow,  which  in  a  little  while  will  leave 
you  more  parched  than  ever.  But  after  no  long  climb 
ing  on  the  snow,  you  reach  the  summit  of  the  Pass, 
six  thousand  five  hundred  feet  above  the  sea.  Here 
you  will  find  a  little  inn,  the  Steinbock,  where  a  simple 
but  abundant  repast  awaits  the  travellers.  Thirty  or 
forty,  almost  all  English,  sit  down  to  copious  supplies 
of  stewed  chamois,  washed  down  with  prodigious 
draughts  of  thin  claret.  Here  you  rest  an  hour.  And 
going  out,  you  look  at  the  Wetterhorn,  which  rises  in  a 
perpendicular  wall  of  limestone  rock  many  thousand 
feet  in  height,  beginning  to  rise  apparently  a  hundred 
yards  off.  But  your  eye  deceives  you  in  this  clear  air 
and  amid  these  tremendous  magnitudes.  The  base  of 
the  precipice  is  more  than  a  mile  away.  And  when 
you  begin  to  descend  towards  Grindelwald,  the  awful 
wall  of  rock  seems  to  hang  over  you,  though  nowhere 
you  approach  within  a  mile  of  it.  It  is  not  safe  to  go 
nearer,  for  every  now  and  then  you  hear  a  tremendous 
roar,  and  looking  towards  the  Wetterhorn  you  see  a 
mass  of  what  looks  like  powdery  snow  sliding  swiftly 
down  the  rock.  You  are  astonished  that  so  small  a 
thing  should  make  such  a  noise.  But  that  is  an  ava 
lanche  ;  and  if  you  were  nearer,  you  would  know  that 
wjiat  seemed  powdery  snow  was  indeed  hundreds  of 
tons  of  ice,  in  huge  blocks  and  masses.  And  if  a  village 


344  FROM  SATURDAY  TO  MONDAY. 

of  chalets  had  stood  in  the  way,  that  slide  of  powdery 
snow  would  have  swept  it  to  destruction. 

It  is  a  fact  well  known  to  students  of  physical  philos 
ophy,  that  it  is  incomparably  easier  to  go  down  a  steep 
hill  than  to  ascend  one.  This  is  a  result  of  the  great 
and  beneficial  law  of  gravitation,  according  to  which  all 
..material  bodies  tend  towards  the  centre  of  the  earth. 
And  the  consequence  of  this  law  is,  that  when,  we  set  off 
to  descend  from  this  height,  we  do  it  very  easily  and 
rapidly.  A  horse,  indeed,  looks  a  poor  and  awkward 
figure  scrambling  down  these  paths ;  but  if  you  have 
in  your  hands  that  long,  light,  tough  staff  of  ash  shod 
with  iron  which  is  called  an  Alpen-stock,  you  will 
bound  over  the  masses  of  rock  at  a  great  pace,  doing 
things  which  in  a  less  exhilarating  air  you  would  shrink 
from.  All  the  way  down  on  the  left,  apparently  close 
by,  there  is  that  awful  wall  of  the  Wetterhorn,  and  you 
may  see  other  peaks,  of  which  the  most  noticeable  or  at 
least  the  most  memorable  is  the  Schreckhorn.  By  and 
by,  by  the  path,  you  may  discern  a  man  standing  be 
side  a  great  square  wooden  box,  like  a  small  tub  fixed 
on  a  stake  of  wood  four  or  five  feet  high.  And  when 
the  travellers  approach,  the  man  will  fit  to  that  box  a 
wooden  pipe  eight  feet  long,  and  sticking  his  tongue  into 
the  lesser  end  of  the  pipe,  will  vehemently  blow  into  it. 
That  rude  apparatus  is  the  Alpine  horn,  of  which  you 
have  heard  folk  talk  and  sing.  There  is  nothing  spe 
cially  attractive  to  the  ear,  in  the  few  notes  brayed 
forth;  but  what  grand  echoes,  doubled  and  redoubled, 
are  awakened  up  in  the  breast  of  that  huge  wall,  and 
die  away  in  the  upper  air  and  mountain !  Produee 
from  your  purse  a  liberal  tip,  and  ask  the  mountaineer 


FROM  SATURDAY  TO  MONDAY.  345 

to  let  you  try  his  horn.  You  blow  with  all  your  might, 
like  my  friend  Mac  Puff  sounding  his  own  trumpet,  but 
there  is  dead  silence,  as.when  to  such  as  know  him  well 
Mac  Puff  does  so  sound ;  a  feeble  hissing  of  air  from  the 
great  tub  is  all  that  rewards  your  labor.  And  one 
always  respects  a  person  who  can  do  what  one  cannot 
do.  Down  along  the  slope,  till,  turning  a  little  way  to 
the  left,  you  approach  the  Upper  Glacier  of  Grindel- 
wald,  filling  up  the  great  gulf  between  the  Wetterhorn 
and  the  Schreckhorn.  Into  this  glacier  you  enter  by 
an  artificial  tunnel ;  but  the  ice  is  dirty,  and  streams  of 
water  pour  from  it  on  your  head.  Thus  you  speedily 
retreat.  Great  belts  of  fir-trees  fringe  the  glacier, 
which,  like  other  glaciers,  comes  far  below  the  snow- 
line.  For  as  the  ice  which  forms  the  glacier  gradually 
melts  away  at  the  lower  extremity  next  the  valley,  the 
ice  from  above  presses  on  and  fills  its  place.  The  gla 
cier  is  in  fact  a  slowly  advancing  stream  of  ice.  And 
all  the  glaciers  are  gradually  retreating  into  the  moun 
tains,  as  increasing  cultivation  and  population  make  the 
lower  extremity  melt  away  somewhat  faster  than  the 
waste  can  be  supplied.  Starting  from  far  in  the  icy 
bosom  of  the  Alps,  in  the  region  of  perpetual  snow,  the 
Grindelwald  glaciers  come  down  to  within  a  few  yards 
of  as  green  and  rich  grass  as  (if  you  were  a  cow)  you 
would  desire  to  eat. 

Now  we  walk  for  an  hour  through  meadows  in  the 
valley,  pausing  at  a  chalet  to  have  some  Alpine  straw 
berries,  small  and  flavorless ;  and  so  at  five  o'clock  on 
Monday  afternoon  enter  Grindelwald.  The  inns  are 
filled  with  travellers ;  but  we  are  lucky  in  finding  space 
at  the  Adler,  whose  windows  look  full  on  the  Lower 
15* 


346  FROM  SATURDAY  TO  MONDAY. 

Glacier,  at  the  distance  of  a  mile.  From  a  great  black- 
looking  cave  at  the  end  of  the  glacier,  a  river  breaks 
away,  of  the  dirty  whity-brown  ^water  that  comes  from 
glaciers.  It  is  a  curious  thing  to  see  a  river  starting, 
full  grown  from  the  first.  Look  to  the  left  of  the  lower 
end  of  the  glacier,  the  ground  meets  the  ice.  Look  to 
the  right,  and  there  a  pretty  big  river,  that  looks  as  if  it 
had  burst  out  from  the  earth,  is  flowing  away  as  if  it 
had  run  a  score  of  miles. 

Let  the  traveller  refresh  himself  by  much-needed 
ablution;  they  give  you  pretty  large  basins  here.  And 
then  descending,  sit  down  to  dinner  at  the  table-d'hote, 
A  large  party,  almost  all  Germans.  So  are  the  waiters. 
Thus,  if  you  express  to  a  neighbor  your  conviction  that 
something  presented  to  you  as  chamois  is  in  truth  a 
portion  of  a  very  tough  and  aged  goat,  no  offence  is 
given. 

Shall  it  be  recorded  how,  after  dinner,  we  sat  in  the 
twilight  on  a  terrace  hard  by,  looking  at  the  glacier  and 
the  Alps;  how,  as  it  darkened  down,  we  entered  the 
dining-room  again,  and  there  beheld,  seated  at  tea,  a  cer 
tain  great  Anglican  prelate  ?  Shall  it  be  recorded  how, 
if  one  had  never  seen  nor  heard  of  him  before,  you 
might  have  learned  something  of  his  eloquence,  genial 
ity,  and  tact,  transcending  those  of  ordinary  men,  even 
from  that  hour  and  a  half  before  he  retired  to  rest? 
Shall  it  be  recorded  how,  having  begun  to  tell  a  story 
to  his  own  party,  he  gradually  and  easily,  as  he  dis 
cerned  others  listening  with  interest,  addressed  himself 
to  them,  till  he  ended  his  story  in  the  audience  of  all  in 
that  large  chamber  ?  And  shall  it  be  recorded  how  two 
pretty  young  English  girls  sat  and  gazed  with  rapt  and 


FROM  SATURDAY  TO  MONDAY.  347 

silent  admiration  on  the  great  man's  face?  Two  or 
three  young  fellows  who  had  sought  during  that  day  to 
commend  themselves  to  these  fair  beings  felt  themselves 
(you  could  see)  hopelessly  eclipsed  and  cut  out,  and 
regarded  the  unconscious  bishop  with  looks  of  fury. 
Happily  he  did  not  know,  so  it  did  him  no  harm. 

My  friend  Mac  Spoon  recently  dilated,  in  my  hearing, 
on  the  advantages  of  Pocket  Diaries ;  which  (as  wise 
men  know)  are  not  records  of  passing  and  past  events, 
but  memoranda  of  engagements.  "  You  note  down  in 
these,"  said  he,  "  all  you  have  to  do  ;  while  yet  if  your 
book  should  be  lost,  and  so  fall  into  the  hands  of  a  stran 
ger,  he  could  not  for  his  life  understand  the  meaning  of 
your  inscriptions.  Thus,"  he  went  on,  "you  see  how 
under  the  head  of  Thursday,  April  32d,  1864,  I  have 
marked  Jericho  Train  at  10.30.  Now  if  that  were  to 
fall  into  a  stranger's  possession,  he  could  make  nothing 
of  it,  he  would  not  know  what  it  meant  at  all.  But  as 
for  me,  the  moment  I  look  at  it,  I  know  that  it  means 
that  on  Thursday,  April  3 2d,  1864,  I  am  to  go  to  Jeri 
cho  by  the  10.30  train."  Such  were  the  individual's 
words.  And  now,  for  the  sake  of  those  readers  who 
could  not  understand  that  mysterious  inscription,  I  think 
it  expedient  distinctly  to  declare,  that  the  reason  why 
this  history  is  called  From  Saturday  to  Monday  is,  that 
it  gives  an  account  of  historical  events,  beginning  with 
Saturday  and  ending  on  Monday.  And  thus,  having 
reached  Monday  evening  (for  soon  after  the  bishop's 
story  everybody  went  to  bed),  my  task  is  done.  It  can 
never  transpire,  what  happened  on  the  Tuesday.  Per 
haps  something  happened  of  great  public  interest.  But 
if  I  were  to  record  it  here,  then  it  would  appear  as  if 


348  FKOM  SATURDAY  TO  MONDAY. 

what  occurred  on  Tuesday  occured  between  Saturday 
and  Monday,  which  is  absurd. 

The  remembrance  of  foreign  travel  is  pleasanter  than 
the  travel  itself.  For  in  remembrance  there  are  none 
of  the  hosts  that  are  dispelled  by  copious  camphor ;  no 
wear  of  the  muscles,  nor  of  the  lungs  and  heart ;  no  eyes 
hot  and  blinded  with  the  sunshine  on  the  snow ;  no 
parched  throat  and  leathery  tongue ;  no  old  goat's  flesh 
disguished  as  chamois  venison.  The  little  drawbacks 
are  forgot ;  but  the  absence  of  care  and  labor,  the  blue 
sky  and  the  bright  sun,  glacier  and  cataract,  and  the 
snowy  Alps,  remain. 


CONCLUSION. 


T  is  the  way  of  Providence,  in  most  cases, 
gradually  to  wean  us  from  the  things  which 
we  must  learn  to  resign ;  and  it  has  been 
so  with  this  holiday-time,  now  all  but  end 
ed.  It  is  not  now  what  it  was  when  we  came  here. 
The  leaves  wore  their  summer  green  when  we  came, 
now  they  have  faded  into  autumn  russet  and  gold.  The 
paths  are  strewn  deep  with  those  that  have  fallen ;  and 
even  in  the  quiet  sunshiny  afternoon,  some  bare  trees 
look  wintry  against  the  sky.  Like  the  leaves,  the  holi 
day-time  has  faded,  —  it  is  outgrown.  The  appetite 
for  work  has  revived,  and  all  of  us  now  look  forward 
with  as  fresh  interest  to  going  back  to  the  city  to  work 
as  we  once  did  to  coming  away  from  the  city  to  rest 
and  play. 

We  have  been  weaned  by  slow  degrees.  Nature  is 
hedging  us  in.  The  days  are  shortening  fast;  the 
breeze  strikes  chill  in  the  afternoons  as  they  darken. 
The  sea  sometimes  feels  bitter,  even  though  you  enter  it 
head  foremost.  Nor  have  there  lacked  days  of  ceaseless 
rain  and  of  keen  north  wind.  Two  lighthouses,  one 
casting  fitful  flashes  across  the  water  and  one  burning 
with  a  steady  light,  become  great  features  of  the  scene 


350  CONCLUSION. 

by  seven  o'clock  in  the  evening.  A  little  later,  there  is 
a  line  of  lights  that  stretches  for  miles  at  the  base  of 
the  dark  hills  along  the  opposite  shore ;  indoor  occupa 
tions  have  supplanted  evening  walks  ;  yet  a  day  or  t\vo, 
and  those  lights  will  no  more  be  seen.  The  inhabitants 
of  the  dwellings  they  make  visible  will  have  returned  to 
the  great  city,  and  very  many  of  the  pretty  cottages  and 
houses  will  remain  untenanted  through  the  long  winter 
time. 

As  these  last  days  are  passing,  one  feels  the  vague  re 
morse  which  is  felt  when  most  things  draw  to  an  end. 
One  feels  as  if  we  might  have  made  more  of  this  time 
of  quiet  amid  these  beautiful  hills.  Surely  we  ought  to 
have  enjoyed  the  place  and  the  time  more !  Thus  we 
are  disposed  to  blame  ourselves,  but  to  blame  ourselves 
unjustly.  You  would  be  aware  of  the  like  tendency, 
parting  from  almost  anything,  no  matter  how  much  you 
had  made  of  it.  You  will  know  the  vague  remorse 
when  dear  friends  die,  thinking  you  ought  to  have  been 
kinder  to  them ;  you  will  know  it,  though  you  did  for 
them  all  that  could  be  done  by  mortal.  And  when  you 
come  to  die,  my  friend,  looking  back  on  the  best-spent 
life,  you  will  think  how  differently  you  would  spend  it 
were  it  to  be  spent  again.  You  will  feel  as  if  your  tal 
ent  had  been  very  poorly  occupied,  and  doubtless  with 
good  reason,  here. 

Last  night,  there  was  a  magnificent  sunset.  You 
saw  the  great  red  ball  above  the  mountains,  visibly 
going  down.  It  was  curious  to  watch  the  space  be 
tween  the  sun  and  the  dark  ridge  beneath  it  lessening 
moment  by  moment,  till  the  sun  slowly  sunk  from  sight. 


CONCLUSION.  351 

Of  course,  he  had  been  approaching  his  setting  just  as 
fast  all  day  as  in  those  last  minutes  above  the  horizon ; 
but  there  was  something  infinitely  more  striking  about 
the  very  end.  At  broad  noonday,  it  is  not  so  easy  to 
fully  take  in  the  great  truth  which  Dr.  Johnson  had 
engraved  on  the  dial  of  his  watch,  that  he  might  be 
often  reminded  of  it,  —  the  solemn  Nu£  yap  ep^erat.  It 
is  in  the  last  minutes  that  we  are  made  to  think  that  we 
ought  to  have  valued  the  sun  more  when  we  had  him, 
and  valued  more  the  day  he  measured  out. 

Day  by  day  this  volume  has  grown  up  through  this 
holiday-time.  In  its  earlier  portion,  the  author  diligently 
revised  the  chapters  you  have  read.  And  by  and  by, 
the  leisurely  postman  brought  the  daily  pages  of  pleas 
ing  type,  in  which  things  look  so  different  from  what 
they  look  in  the  cramped  magazine  printing.  Great  is 
the  enjoyment  which  antique  ornaments  and  large  initial 
letters  afford  to  a  simple  mind. 

And  now  it  is  the  forenoon  of  our  last  day  here  ;  we 
go  early  to-morrow  morning.  Play-time  is  past,  and 
work-time  is  to  begin.  I  hear  voices  outside,  and  the 
pattering  of  little  feet ;  there  are  the  sea  and  the  hills  ; 
and  all  the  place  is  pervaded  by  the  sound  of  the  waves. 
On  no  day  through  our  time  here  did  .the  place  look  as 
it  does  now ;  it  wears  the  peculiar  aspect  which  comes 
over  places  from  which  you  are  parting.  How  fast  the 
holidays  have  slipped  away !  And  what  a  beautiful 
scene  this  is  !  What  a  pretty  little  Gothic  church  it  is, 
in  which  for  these  Sundays  that  are  gone  the  writer  has 
taken  part  of  the  duty  ;  how  green  the  ivy  on  the  cliffs, 
and  the  paths  through  the  woods ;  what  perpetual  life 
in  that  ceaseless  fluctuation  of  which  you  seldom  lose 


352 


CONCLUSION. 


sight  for  long  !  But  we  must  all  set  our  faces  to  the 
months  of  work  once  more,  thankful  to  feel  fit  for  them  ; 
not  without  some  anxiety  in  the  prospect  of  them  ; 
looking  for  the  guidance  and  help  of  that  kindest  Hand 
which  has  led  through  the  like  before. 


Cambridge  :   Stereotyped  and  Printed  by  Welch,  Bigelow,  &  Co. 


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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


